You may have heard this before, but I have stumbled on to a sure thing. Bona fide. You can count on it. Money in the bank (or credit union). Can't miss.
Let me set the stage. As we approach October, the Greater New Orleans street market guerrilla bookselling season, dominated by Deep South Samizdat Books (proprietor, one M. Parker) will be moving forward great guns, as will the National Football League season (maybe even Garrett Hartley will have figured things out by then), the first NFL season featuring the still-implausible defending Super Bowl Champions the New Orleans Saints. So what if I told you I have a surefire method for predicting the two Super Bowl teams, and that you, as a literate, book-loving Greater New Orleans street market guerrilla bookstall patron, could have a direct influence on your favorite team occupying that exclusive position?
As regular readers of this blog know (thanks, Mom and Dad), I provide my readers the service of periodically publishing the Greater New Orleans Street Market Bestseller List. If you recall, the top two positions in the 2009 year-end poll were held by novelists Kurt Vonnegut and Walker Percy.
Vonnegut (Cat's Cradle, Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champions) was born in Indianapolis, while Percy, though born in Birmingham and raised in Mississippi, lived most of his adult life in New Orleans and Covington, LA, the settings for most of his novels, which include The Moviegoer, Love in the Ruins and Thanatos Syndrome. And February's Super Bowl featured the Indianapolis Colts and the New...Orleans...Saints. Gasp.
That's right. No matter how much I try to find a logical flaw in my conclusion, I am unable to deny the absolute, objective truth: the NFL teams most closely affiliated with the top two finishers in the year-end Greater New Orleans Street Market Bestseller List are inevitably the two teams who survive the playoff rounds and meet in the Super Bowl.
Even a comprehensive check of the historical record bears out the hypothesis, year after year:
Super Bowl III: New York Jets/Baltimore Colts
Bestsellers: Amidst the turmoil of the late 1960's, New Orleanians snatched up copies of the works of pugnacious New York existentialist hipster Norman Mailer and Baltimore bard Edgar Allan Poe, whose "Nevermore" escapes from the lips of many a hungover tourist in the Cresent City.
Super Bowl IX: Pittsburgh Steelers/Minnesota Vikings
Bestsellers: The malaise of the mid-70's had New Orleanians considering the pros and cons of rural simplicity, and Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek provided the template; and Bob Dylan's rumored conversion to Christianity lead to renewed interest in the Blake from Hibbing (I couldn't keep Tarantula in stock that year).
Super Bowl XX: Chicago Bears/New England Patriots
Bestsellers: New Orleanians were too sophisticated to fall for the Ellis/McInerny/Janowitz hype of the mid-80's, opting instead for the gritty Chicago streets of Nelson Algren (The Man With the Golden Arm, A Walk on the Wild Side) and the crumbling New England mansions of H.P. Lovecraft (although the interest in this author was no doubt inspired by the devastation that year of Hurricane Cthulhu, Category 666).
Super Bowl XLI: Colts/Saints
Bestsellers: Vonnegut/Percy
Irrefutable objective evidence to support an airtight scientific hypothesis. If only I had recognized this pattern years before. How much money have I left on the table in Vegas, unable to recognize right before my eyes? Never again, for me or my loyal readers, with whom I am more than willing to (in the words of 1936 bestseller Huey Long) "Share the Wealth."
In that spirit, I offer my most recent update of the Bestseller List, featuring the NFL team equivalents of each author, including some alternate teams for those writers associated with more than one city/state/region (trying to avoid the Louisiana bias):
1.) Kurt Vonnegut (Colts)
2.) Walker Percy (Saints)
As of right now, we are looking at a rematch, not an uncommon speculation before the start of this young season. Each team is 2-1, with some noticeably erratic performances thus far. But their literary counterparts have not missed a beat since the end of last year.
3.) George Orwell (New England Patriots)
Obviously, Orwell was English, so the designation of an NFL team to him has to come down to interpretation and intangibles. The Boston area, stretching into New England, is probably the most Anglophilic region of the country, while the revolutionary fervor of the mascot, with its imagery of Tea Parties, fits well with the socialist, anti-fascist, anti-imperialist stances of the author of Homage to Catalonia, The Road to Wigan Pier and Down and Out in Paris and London (that's about it for his ouvre, right?)
4.) Ray Bradbury (Chicago Bears)
The Grand Master was born in small-town Illinois, so the surprisingly undefeated Bears have themselves a champion. Something Ditka This Way Comes.
5.) (tie) Walter Moseley (San Diego Chargers)
The hard-boiled crime fiction writer is obviously identified with postwar Los Angeles, but our nation's second-largest city does not currently have an NFL franchise. As such, the current Southern California team will have to substitute. Devil in a Blue Dress (with yellow lightning bolts!).
5.) (tie) David Sedaris (Carolina Panthers)
The laugh-out-loud literary humorist grew up in suburban North Carolina, so he gets the unenviable job of representing the Panthers, who should be crushed next Sunday by Walker Percy's Saints (me play pretty one day: the Jimmy Clausen story)!
Expect updates throughout the Fall, as other writers and teams make their moves. Better yet, take an active role in your favorite team's destiny and buy the books associated with said team. You may not be able to sack the opposing team's quarterback or hit the last-second field goal, but you can come out to, say, the Freret Market on Saturday, Oct. 1, and support your tumultuous, Glass family-esque J-E-T-S, Jets! Jets! Jets!, with the purchase of a J.D. Salinger paperback. It's just that easy. I'll see you there.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
One of Us: John Waters as Freak, Friend and Fan
Book reviewed:
Role Models, by John Waters. 2010, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 301 pages.
I have always appreciated maverick film director John Waters, his audacity, his obvious love for the home-grown freaks who populate his adored subterranean Baltimore and render the place cinematically as vividly as Joyce's Dublin, William Kennedy's Albany or Wendell Berry's Kentucky. I admittedly haven't felt the need to keep up with his more recent output the past few years, but Pecker and Hairspray were both quite entertaining and deliciously subversive, if in a more subtle manner compared to in-your-face predecessors like Pink Flamingos and Female Trouble.
Thus I approached Waters' new book Role Models with something more than idle curiousity, something less than intense interest, when I saw it on the New Arrivals shelf at the library (a place I probably have no business entering in the first place, considering all the still-unread William Kennedy and Wendell Berry novels on my shelves). Even after bringing it home, it had to compete with a couple of more involved reading commitments, my long-overdue cracking of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest (125 pages in) and Robin D.G. Kelley's comprehensive biography of Thelonious Monk. So there was more than half an expectation that, like many New Arrival impulse borrowings (thanks to that bewitching enabler, the Public Library), I would skim a few chapters during the three weeks it would belong to me, and then I would return it, marveling at Waters' outrageousness and moving on to the next temptress like the literary Lothario the library encourages me to be (I feel so dirty afterwards, but I can't help myself).
But a funny thing happened. I guess you could say I forged a deep emotional connection with this book, maybe even something approaching "love'? I must confess, I found Role Models a work of great depth and compassion, extremely moving at points, and always entertaining.
Rather surprisingly, the author's identity as John Waters, filmmaker, is subdued. There are passing references to specific movies, but the personae that take center stage are those of John Waters, friend, fan, proud Baltmorean, titillated voyeur and passionate reader and art collector.
The emotional center of the book is the third chapter, which details Waters' years-long friendship with Leslie Van Houten, one of the "Manson Girls" convicted for the Tate/La Bianca murders (surely I don't have to explain further, even in this attention span-challenged age of ours). Anyone familiar with Waters' early work knows of his obsession with Charles Manson and his cult following, an obsession he now admits to "...using... in a joking, smart-ass way in my earlier films without the slightest feeling for the victims' families or the lives of the brainwashed Manson killer kids who were also victims in this sad and terrible case," (p. 45). While acknowledging (and conveying van Houten's acknowledgment of) the inhuman brutality and heinousness of her crimes, Waters makes a compelling case for her rehabilitation, decades removed from Manson's influence. Van Houten comes across as utterly sane and determined to make a meaningful contribution, regardless of her circumstances. Her initial reluctance to engage with Waters is testament to her levelheadedness even in severe isolation, and Waters thoughtfully applauds her resistance of conversion to jailhouse Christianity, with its easy and immediate forgiveness and network of ready-made, media-savvy allies. Waters' empathy and affection are palpable, particularly as he has to weigh his willingness to do all he can for a friend in need against the fear that his notoriety undercuts his effectiveness as her advocate.
Waters' fanboy passions are given full indulgence in profiles of Johnny Mathis and Little Richard, both pieces skillful alloys of journalistic inquiry and personal exploration. Speculation about Mathis' ambiguous sexuality leads to a meditation on the author's obsession with the psychotic child character in The Bad Seed, while the memory of playing his freshly-shoplifted 45 of "Lucille" during a family gathering leads to the profound realization that, "In one magical moment, every fear of my white family had been laid bare: an uninvited, screaming, flamboyant black man was in the living room. Even Dr. Spock hadn't warned them about this, (p. 183).
Finally, the intellectual highlight of the book is Waters' discussion of Cy Twombley's work in the chapter "Roommates," in which he rhapsodizes about his personal art collection. I remember seeing an exhibition of Twombley's work at the Menil in Houston many years back, and loving it. Why I loved it, I would have been hard-pressed to articulate at the time, but there is a minimalist, anti-monumental audacity to his work that is truly exhilarating. Waters, who admits to owning 81 volumes on Twombley's work among his (at the time of writing) 8,245 total books (music to the ears of this guerrilla bookseller), delivers the critical goods in language which expands the reader's understanding of the artwork while creating an individualistic (but decidedly not self-indulgent) and decidedly populist work of art as criticism (think Dave Hickey or Lawrence Wechsler):
"You see, Cy Twombley is, quite simply, better than you and me and has the right to feel superior to all collectors. He should (author's italics) judge us because he makes perfect mistakes and laughs at the concerns of the moneyed class, who deserve the problems of abstraction. For me, his thoroughbred so-called scribbles celebrate an ecstacy that only a dyslexic child prodigy could feel over his secret code words and alternative alphabets. This exclusive, violent, erotic handwriting that may seem illegible to others can (ditto, I mean ibid or something) be read if you just give it a chance," (pp. 246-247).
In slightly less abstract terms, this could serve as an apt description of Waters' work, and this book, as well, as appreciations of Baltimore dive bars and raw "outsider porn" bump up against those of Tennessee Williams and Jane Bowles. There is a great generosity of spirit in these pages, and you should grab hold. You might need to wipe some kind of bodily fluid off of your hand afterward, but it will be worth it. Trust him.
Role Models, by John Waters. 2010, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 301 pages.
I have always appreciated maverick film director John Waters, his audacity, his obvious love for the home-grown freaks who populate his adored subterranean Baltimore and render the place cinematically as vividly as Joyce's Dublin, William Kennedy's Albany or Wendell Berry's Kentucky. I admittedly haven't felt the need to keep up with his more recent output the past few years, but Pecker and Hairspray were both quite entertaining and deliciously subversive, if in a more subtle manner compared to in-your-face predecessors like Pink Flamingos and Female Trouble.
Thus I approached Waters' new book Role Models with something more than idle curiousity, something less than intense interest, when I saw it on the New Arrivals shelf at the library (a place I probably have no business entering in the first place, considering all the still-unread William Kennedy and Wendell Berry novels on my shelves). Even after bringing it home, it had to compete with a couple of more involved reading commitments, my long-overdue cracking of David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest (125 pages in) and Robin D.G. Kelley's comprehensive biography of Thelonious Monk. So there was more than half an expectation that, like many New Arrival impulse borrowings (thanks to that bewitching enabler, the Public Library), I would skim a few chapters during the three weeks it would belong to me, and then I would return it, marveling at Waters' outrageousness and moving on to the next temptress like the literary Lothario the library encourages me to be (I feel so dirty afterwards, but I can't help myself).
But a funny thing happened. I guess you could say I forged a deep emotional connection with this book, maybe even something approaching "love'? I must confess, I found Role Models a work of great depth and compassion, extremely moving at points, and always entertaining.
Rather surprisingly, the author's identity as John Waters, filmmaker, is subdued. There are passing references to specific movies, but the personae that take center stage are those of John Waters, friend, fan, proud Baltmorean, titillated voyeur and passionate reader and art collector.
The emotional center of the book is the third chapter, which details Waters' years-long friendship with Leslie Van Houten, one of the "Manson Girls" convicted for the Tate/La Bianca murders (surely I don't have to explain further, even in this attention span-challenged age of ours). Anyone familiar with Waters' early work knows of his obsession with Charles Manson and his cult following, an obsession he now admits to "...using... in a joking, smart-ass way in my earlier films without the slightest feeling for the victims' families or the lives of the brainwashed Manson killer kids who were also victims in this sad and terrible case," (p. 45). While acknowledging (and conveying van Houten's acknowledgment of) the inhuman brutality and heinousness of her crimes, Waters makes a compelling case for her rehabilitation, decades removed from Manson's influence. Van Houten comes across as utterly sane and determined to make a meaningful contribution, regardless of her circumstances. Her initial reluctance to engage with Waters is testament to her levelheadedness even in severe isolation, and Waters thoughtfully applauds her resistance of conversion to jailhouse Christianity, with its easy and immediate forgiveness and network of ready-made, media-savvy allies. Waters' empathy and affection are palpable, particularly as he has to weigh his willingness to do all he can for a friend in need against the fear that his notoriety undercuts his effectiveness as her advocate.
Waters' fanboy passions are given full indulgence in profiles of Johnny Mathis and Little Richard, both pieces skillful alloys of journalistic inquiry and personal exploration. Speculation about Mathis' ambiguous sexuality leads to a meditation on the author's obsession with the psychotic child character in The Bad Seed, while the memory of playing his freshly-shoplifted 45 of "Lucille" during a family gathering leads to the profound realization that, "In one magical moment, every fear of my white family had been laid bare: an uninvited, screaming, flamboyant black man was in the living room. Even Dr. Spock hadn't warned them about this, (p. 183).
Finally, the intellectual highlight of the book is Waters' discussion of Cy Twombley's work in the chapter "Roommates," in which he rhapsodizes about his personal art collection. I remember seeing an exhibition of Twombley's work at the Menil in Houston many years back, and loving it. Why I loved it, I would have been hard-pressed to articulate at the time, but there is a minimalist, anti-monumental audacity to his work that is truly exhilarating. Waters, who admits to owning 81 volumes on Twombley's work among his (at the time of writing) 8,245 total books (music to the ears of this guerrilla bookseller), delivers the critical goods in language which expands the reader's understanding of the artwork while creating an individualistic (but decidedly not self-indulgent) and decidedly populist work of art as criticism (think Dave Hickey or Lawrence Wechsler):
"You see, Cy Twombley is, quite simply, better than you and me and has the right to feel superior to all collectors. He should (author's italics) judge us because he makes perfect mistakes and laughs at the concerns of the moneyed class, who deserve the problems of abstraction. For me, his thoroughbred so-called scribbles celebrate an ecstacy that only a dyslexic child prodigy could feel over his secret code words and alternative alphabets. This exclusive, violent, erotic handwriting that may seem illegible to others can (ditto, I mean ibid or something) be read if you just give it a chance," (pp. 246-247).
In slightly less abstract terms, this could serve as an apt description of Waters' work, and this book, as well, as appreciations of Baltimore dive bars and raw "outsider porn" bump up against those of Tennessee Williams and Jane Bowles. There is a great generosity of spirit in these pages, and you should grab hold. You might need to wipe some kind of bodily fluid off of your hand afterward, but it will be worth it. Trust him.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Super Sad Future Story
Book reviewed: Super Sad True Love Story, by Gary Shteyngart. 2010, Random House, 331 pages.
One of my most vivid experiences as a reader occurred when I was probably 15. I was visiting my grandmother in Coushatta, Louisiana, during the summer, and I brought along a copy of Salem's Lot. I had just gotten in to Stephen King, and I think this was the second of his novels I was reading, after The Dead Zone. I was in a familiar place, but still not my everday home, different couch, different curtains blocking out very different uncertainties making very different sounds, and I was staying up really late reading this intoxicatingly creepy and skillfully written vampire novel, and I was scared shitless. I couldn't put the damn thing down, and wouldn't have been able to get to sleep even if I could, so I'm furtively glancing around, looking (trying to convince myself it's a purely theoretical exercise) for something that would serve as a crucifix, loving and hating every minute of it. It is a visceral reading experience I will never forget.
A very different sense of terror creeps in while reading Gary Shteyngart's new novel Super Sad True Love Story. The story takes place in a near future which seems all too plausible, one in which the melding of instant gratification consumerism and digital technological evolution have resulted in a society in which the Haves (identified as High Net Worth Individuals, all of whom seem to work in either Media, Retail or Credit, for multinational corporations) lead lives that are simultaneously narcissistic and masochistic, with all of their pertinent personal information (credit rating, blood pressure, bank statement, estimated lifespan, etc.) broadcast on their "apparats," souped-up Blackberrys or IPads which both transmit and receive information to everyone in the vicinity. Additionally, a sizeable percentage of people (at least of those under 40, it seems?) are continually broadcasting their activities and conversations, and therefore continually editing themselves and their companions, in order to achieve maximum "viewer load."...
Aaaahhhh! It truly is terrifying, particularly as this society, ruled by the Orwellian/P.K. Dickesque American Restoration Authority and the Bipartisan Party, has rendered the book, and by extension reading as a socially-approved way for the dissemination of information, not just utterly irrelevant, but sufficient grounds for peer-group ostracism. This is an occasional problem for Lenny Abramov, the Russian-American "Life Lovers Outreach Coordinator (Grade G) of the Post-Human Services division of the Staatling-Wapachung Corporation," (p. 5), selling clients the hope of immortality through the use of nanotechnology and lifestyle choices. The prestige of such a lucrative position with such a cutting-edge company (Media? Retail? I'm still not sure, but it looks good on the apparat [unlike, say, guerrilla bookseller/stay-at-homsechooling father/polysyllabic blogger]), however, is undercut by his lingering attachment to the written word, particularly the Russians and Central Europeans. His diary (for you kids reading this, a diary is like a blog, only with paper and pencil....Pen-cil, that's right, I'll explain it later) is one of the narrative devices used so skillfully by Shteyngart.
Another source is the transcripts of the "Globalteens Account" of Eunice Park, a young Korean-American woman Lenny meets during an extended business trip in Rome. He falls hard for Eunice, and they commence a tumultuous relationship upon both returns to New York. Her share of the narrative unfolds through exchanges with her mother, sister, best friend, and Lenny, with later correspondents proving quite crucial to the reader's understanding of the larger socio-political context. The clipped, grammtically-challenged, highly sexualized, consumption-obsessed discourse of Eunice and her peers seems note perfect as an extension of the Twitter/Real World style of dialogue:
One of my most vivid experiences as a reader occurred when I was probably 15. I was visiting my grandmother in Coushatta, Louisiana, during the summer, and I brought along a copy of Salem's Lot. I had just gotten in to Stephen King, and I think this was the second of his novels I was reading, after The Dead Zone. I was in a familiar place, but still not my everday home, different couch, different curtains blocking out very different uncertainties making very different sounds, and I was staying up really late reading this intoxicatingly creepy and skillfully written vampire novel, and I was scared shitless. I couldn't put the damn thing down, and wouldn't have been able to get to sleep even if I could, so I'm furtively glancing around, looking (trying to convince myself it's a purely theoretical exercise) for something that would serve as a crucifix, loving and hating every minute of it. It is a visceral reading experience I will never forget.
A very different sense of terror creeps in while reading Gary Shteyngart's new novel Super Sad True Love Story. The story takes place in a near future which seems all too plausible, one in which the melding of instant gratification consumerism and digital technological evolution have resulted in a society in which the Haves (identified as High Net Worth Individuals, all of whom seem to work in either Media, Retail or Credit, for multinational corporations) lead lives that are simultaneously narcissistic and masochistic, with all of their pertinent personal information (credit rating, blood pressure, bank statement, estimated lifespan, etc.) broadcast on their "apparats," souped-up Blackberrys or IPads which both transmit and receive information to everyone in the vicinity. Additionally, a sizeable percentage of people (at least of those under 40, it seems?) are continually broadcasting their activities and conversations, and therefore continually editing themselves and their companions, in order to achieve maximum "viewer load."...
Aaaahhhh! It truly is terrifying, particularly as this society, ruled by the Orwellian/P.K. Dickesque American Restoration Authority and the Bipartisan Party, has rendered the book, and by extension reading as a socially-approved way for the dissemination of information, not just utterly irrelevant, but sufficient grounds for peer-group ostracism. This is an occasional problem for Lenny Abramov, the Russian-American "Life Lovers Outreach Coordinator (Grade G) of the Post-Human Services division of the Staatling-Wapachung Corporation," (p. 5), selling clients the hope of immortality through the use of nanotechnology and lifestyle choices. The prestige of such a lucrative position with such a cutting-edge company (Media? Retail? I'm still not sure, but it looks good on the apparat [unlike, say, guerrilla bookseller/stay-at-homsechooling father/polysyllabic blogger]), however, is undercut by his lingering attachment to the written word, particularly the Russians and Central Europeans. His diary (for you kids reading this, a diary is like a blog, only with paper and pencil....Pen-cil, that's right, I'll explain it later) is one of the narrative devices used so skillfully by Shteyngart.
Another source is the transcripts of the "Globalteens Account" of Eunice Park, a young Korean-American woman Lenny meets during an extended business trip in Rome. He falls hard for Eunice, and they commence a tumultuous relationship upon both returns to New York. Her share of the narrative unfolds through exchanges with her mother, sister, best friend, and Lenny, with later correspondents proving quite crucial to the reader's understanding of the larger socio-political context. The clipped, grammtically-challenged, highly sexualized, consumption-obsessed discourse of Eunice and her peers seems note perfect as an extension of the Twitter/Real World style of dialogue:
"Anyway, what kind of freaked me out was that I saw Len reading a book. "No, it didn't SMELL. He uses Pine-Sol on them.) And I don't mean scanning a text like we did in Euro Classics with that Chatterhouse of Parma. I mean seriously READING. He had this ruler out and he was moving it down the page very slowly and just like whispering little things to himself, like trying to understand every little part of it. I was going to teen my sister but I was so embarassed I just stood there and watched him read which lasted for like HALF AN HOUR, and finally he put the book down and I pretend like nothing happened" (p. 144).
This is no navel-gazing relationship novel, however. The socio-political milieu is just as skillfully and disturbingly portrayed, and again seems all too plausible as a projection of the present and recent past into the near future. Secretary of Defense Rubenstein is the acknowledged political leader, while the president is an affably moronic figurehead (pretty far-fetched, huh?). The war with Venezuela has not gone well, and a population of disaffected veterans, demanding their promised bonuses, have set up a squatters' community in New York's Tompkins Square Park, accompanied by the urban human collateral damage from the collapsing U.S. economy.
Now let's just step back from that scenario for a moment and consider the layering of historical references. Veterans agitating for promised bonuses after fighting overseas is an obvious reference to the Bonus Army of 1932, World War I vets camped out in Washington during the Depression, demanding the early payment of promised compensation (they were eventually rousted by federal troops commanded by Douglas MacArthur and George Patton). Tompkins Square Park was the sight of a vicious police riot in August of 1988, a watershed moment in New Yorkers' struggle against gentrification. And, of course, Venezuela's President Hugo Chavez is a consistent thorn in the side of the increasingly enfeebled but still-dangerous American Empire, and an armed conflict engineered by a failing state eager to draw attention away from its precipitous demise seems utterly possible and convincingly written.
All of these personal and political intrigues come to a dramatic head late in the novel, with Lenny's immortality-obsessed boss Joshie (I think of him as kind of a cross between Nike CEO Phil Knight and Batman's nemesis Ra's al Ghul, particularly as portrayed by Liam Neeson in Batman Begins) angling to take financial advantage of the chaos, and Lenny and Eunice and their peers, largely clueless to the shifting sands beneath them (or at least the effect on their lives and credit ratings), being forced to....take sides? Perhaps too strong and committed a word for people so emotionally stunted, but in the ballpark.
Finally, something must be said about the spirit of Philip K. Dick, which pervades this novel so palpably (as it does Chronic City, the most recent effort by Jonathan Lethem). I think that one of Dick's most profound stylistic contributions was his ongoing assertion that technological evolution will almost always be at the service of consumerism, rather than transcending it. The delicious irony is that Shteyngart, like Dick, has so masterfully transcended the junk-food intellectual diet of this day and given us something so nuanced and nutritious to gnaw on and mull over. Yummmmm.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Indigenous, the Endangered and the Kaufkaesqu
Although a Lousiana native and frequent visitor to New Orleans, I have only lived here (as an adult) for two years, so my frame of direct reference is decidedly post-Katrina/pre-spill. During those two years, I have tried to immerse myself in New Orleans history and literature, both classic and contemporary, poetry and prose, published and spoken/performed. Through attending readings and devouring recent collections like Dave Brinks' Caveat Onus and Daniel Kerwick's You Stand Alongside Desire, I feel confident in saying that the poetic responses to the multi-layered tragedy that was Katrina (personal, political, ecological, technological) have been remarkable, suffused with articulate rage, stubborn wit, nostalgic melancholy and unbridled passion. After experiencing the "Indigenous and Endangered" reading at Latter Library on Wednesday night, August 4, it appears that the poetic reckoning of the crime/crisis in the Gulf of Mexico will be no different.
Roger Kamenetz, meanwhile, was a passionate rabbi in denim shorts, making the case for Kafka as an appropriate voice for making some kind of order out of the chaos of the oil spill and its still-developing aftermath. Reminding us that Kafka's day job was as an investigator of industrial accidents for an insurance company, and that he often spoke through surreal dying animal characters, "like Gregor Samsa the insect, or Josephine the singing mouse: He would have felt his connection now for the endangered Ridley Sea Turtle and the oiled pelican."
In dark times, the best artists serve an alchemical role, transforming the lead of despair, rage and grief into the gold of beauty and opportunity. I would argue that the writers representing South Louisiana at the Latter Library this evening have a firm grip on the Philosopher's Stone.
The humidity of the sultry summer night was matched by the unexpected greenhouse effect inside the library, as there was some sort of problem with the air conditioning. With some 40-50 people crowded into the reserved room and outside lobby, the sauna/sweat lodge atmosphere was rather overwhelming (I can't decide whether to go in the Jewish or Lakota direction with that metaphor. Maybe Little Big Man, with Dustin Hoffman as an Indian? Then you can bring in the "small people" gaffe, and then....).
In the interests of economy, I will state a gross oversimplification, that being that there were two broad themes explored by the participating poets. Louisiana Poet Laureate Darrell Bourque, Brad Richard, Megan Burns and emcee Gina Ferrara were solidly grounded in a sense of place, whether the Gulf Coast or Acadiana, Biloxi or Gueydan, Grande Isle or Port Arthur. Jerry Ward, Roger Kamenetz, Dave Brinks and Kelly Harris all opted for a more surrealistic approach, or should I say surregionalist, to use the magically elegant term coined the Mesechabe folks. Anthropomorphized, angry wildlife (from Harris' hilarious A Pissed-off Bird) shared the stage with pre-Christian mythological references and the channeling of the two patron saints of the evening, Bob Kaufman and Franz Kafka.
Ward and Brinks both made direct reference to Kaufman, the New Orleans native and poetic genius whose work inspired the title of this blog (and whose image of the poet as a "fish with frog's eyes seems eerily prophetic in the toxic stew of the Gulf), with Brinks circulating a rare photo of Kaufman to the eager crowd. Both poets strung together rich verbal images, transporting the listener from the banality of the immediate to the mysticism of the immediate infinite.Roger Kamenetz, meanwhile, was a passionate rabbi in denim shorts, making the case for Kafka as an appropriate voice for making some kind of order out of the chaos of the oil spill and its still-developing aftermath. Reminding us that Kafka's day job was as an investigator of industrial accidents for an insurance company, and that he often spoke through surreal dying animal characters, "like Gregor Samsa the insect, or Josephine the singing mouse: He would have felt his connection now for the endangered Ridley Sea Turtle and the oiled pelican."
In dark times, the best artists serve an alchemical role, transforming the lead of despair, rage and grief into the gold of beauty and opportunity. I would argue that the writers representing South Louisiana at the Latter Library this evening have a firm grip on the Philosopher's Stone.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Guilty Pleasures in Trying Times
Books reviewed:
Home Team: Coaching the Saints and New Orleans Back to Life, by Sean Payton and Ellis Henigan. New American Library, $24.95. 295 pages.
Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s, by Dan Epstein. Thomas Dunne Books, $25.99. 340 pages.
It may be hard to believe for those of you who know me only through my writings, but my mind doesn't occupy itself solely with classic literature, ideas of elevated philosophical import and the most pressing socio-economic issues of our time. I also enjoy bringing my piercing intellect, urbane wit and unbridled passion to the appreciation of those great American pastimes. baseball and American football (as distinguished from the subtle variation known as Canadian football, and the not-so-subtle variation known as "soccer," or "Anti-American football"). Despite my notable lack of success this season in fantasy baseball. I consider myself a serious and well-informed fan with a head for vitally important statistical information, known to most women by the term "trivia," (did you know Drew Brees is the third Purdue quarterback to win the Super Bowl, along with Len Dawson and Bob Griese? Look out, Alabama [Bart Starr, Joe Namath, Ken Stabler]!).
Thus, with baseball beyond the All-Star break and NFL teams breaking training camp, I decided to take some time out from my usual summer tradition of rereading all of Shakespeare's work (in the original English, of course) to sample a couple of recently-published sports books, both of intensely personal interest.
Before the 2009 season, I think I can say that my decades-long passion for the New Orleans Saints legitimately earned me the sobriquet "long-suffering." I remember the Aints, Ken Stabler handing off to Earl Campbell when both were well beyond their prime, dropping an almost-full plate of food when it was clear the team had not come to play in their first playoff game against the Vikings in 1987 (in all fairness, as fondly as I recall Jim Mora, I believe a more fliexible coach would have had the 1987-1991 Saints in the Super Bowl at least once ["Turn Perriman loose, and let Hebert throw the damn ball to him!!"]). My then-infant daughter burst into tears when I was unable to contain myself during the first playoff victory against the Rams ("But Zora, it's the Rams! The freakin' Rams!"). That the Super Bowl victory happened approximately four and a half years after the worst unnatural disaster in U.S. history added that much more drama, especially given the fact that so many of the key individuals contributing to that victory (Coach Sean Payton, players Drew Brees, Reggie Bush, Marques Colston, Jahri Evans, Scott Fujita) arrived very soon after, with no illusions about the state of the still-recovering city. So I was anxious to see if Payton would be able to transcend the usual cliches his memoir Home Team: Coaching the Saints and New Orleans Back to Life.
Fortunately, I would argue that Payton successfully avoided the most egregious pitfalls of the coaching memoir. The first is the motivational tome, which tends to rely on metaphors identifying the coach as either a field general or c.e.o., thereby preparing the writer/coach for a second career as a corporate motivational speaker. With his love for and wardrobe identification with laid-back country crooner Kenny Chesney (the photo presence count in the book is Drew Brees four, Chesney three), I don't think Payton is cut from that cloth. The other trap, more ubiquitous in football than in other sports, is the memoir as extended Christian testimonial. You know what? I read the whole damn book, and I don't know if Sean Payton is a Christian or not. Purely statistically speaking, he probably is, not that it's any of my business. And, praise the Lord, hallelujah, amen, he didn't make it any of my business.
The first few chapters are given to a brief pre-Saints biography, one that is both fairly typical of the nomadic life of the football player-turned-coach, and very unique. After a distinguished quarterbacking career at the University of Eastern Illinois, a brief professional playing career brings Payton from Chicago (Arena League) to Ottawa to Philadelphia (as a scab... excuse me, replacement player during the NFL strike), and finally, London, before embarking on a coaching career. Along the way, NFL coaching legend Bill Parcells becomes an important mentor, and Payton comes this close to taking the Oakland Raiders head coaching job, which would have meant working for owner Al Davis, the eccentric and once-brilliant football mind whose recent stubbornness and erratic personnel decisions have made a once-proud franchise a laughingstock.
After Payton takes the Saints job, the portrait that emerges is one of a master motivator and a gutsy, risk-taking tactician. The reader doesn't come away awed by a Bill Walsh- or Bill Belichick-like intellect, one whose innovations will change the way the game is played (leave that for defensive coordinator Gregg Williams). But I think it could be argued that his tutelage has turned Drew Brees and Darren Sharper from NFL stars to NFL Hall of Famers. I don't think Payton inspires the blend of respect tinged with fear that coaches from Vince Lombardi to Parcells to Tom Coughlin have made the template for a football coach in a lot of people's minds. But I do think his methods inspire similar run-through-a-brick-wall loyalties (or, in Fujita's case, surf through a waterpark wooden fence [p. 171]).
Much is made of the emotional and logistical challenges faced in post-Katrina New Orleans (a hellish pharmacy run probably came close to making Payton having to choose between his new job and his marriage, with good reason [pp. 69-70]). Given the unique circumstances, Payton makes some interesting choices describing the 2006 season. Following the nightmare of 2005, which saw the team's home games shifted to San Antonio and called into question the future of the team in New Orleans, the Saints capped off a remarkable run with an emotional playoff win against the Philadelphia Eagles, followed by their first-ever appearance in the NFC Championship, a disappointing 39-14 loss to the Chicago Bears in frigid, snowy conditions. For most teams, under most circumstances, a historical playoff run is the story of the season, and certainly the story of that section of the coach's memoir. But there was a bigger story for this team, and this city, and this coach, and Payton and co-writer Ellis Henican devote the 10 pages of Chapter 16 to the return to the Superdome, probably the most emotional chapter in the book.
On September 25, 2006, the Saints finally returned to their home stadium, approximately 13 months after it symbolized, to so many, the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina and the criminally incompetent governmental response to it. Regional and divisional rivals the Atlanta Falcons would be visiting, and the eyes of the world would be back on New Orleans, through Monday Night Football, enhanced by the presence of U2 and Green Day, performing before the game. Recognizing the need to prepare his team for this unprecedented gametime situation, Payton reached down deep during the Friday practice before the game.
Gathering his team on the fifty-yard line, Payton introduced them to two Superdome officials who stayed through the Katrina aftermath. Then he gave the signal:
The lights went down. The Dome stayed dark for a moment. Then both the new Jumbotrons lit up, and a powerful highlights video filled the screen. Not the kind of highlights that usually play before a football game. These were highlights of Katrina. Lowlights may be a better word.
The video was just five minutes long. But I swear, it was the most emotional five minutes of tape I'd ever seen. The rising water, the people's faces, the houses with X's on the doors letting the rescuers know many bodies were inside. Those thick New Orleans accents. Very, very powerful stuff from beginning to end. And when the video was finished, these images of Katrina gave way to a song--the throaty exuberance of Hank Williams, Jr. singing "Are You Ready for Some Football?"--the Monday Night Football theme (pp. 130-131).
Everything is encapsulated in those moments. There's a coach preparing his team for an important game. An emotional acknowledgement of the triviality of that game, compared to the moral gravity of recent events not just in that city, but within that very building. A dramatic reminder that the trivial game is to be played on one of the largest stages in the world, and is therefore transformed in such a way that transcends the action on the field.
The Saints won 23-3, and I think it can be argued that a city and its people were able to look to the future with a little more hope, hope that turned to unadulterated joy when Tracy Porter made his way toward the end zone three and a half years later. And I think we all recall that storybook ending, right?
As much as I enjoyed reliving the Saints' Super Bowl victory, and as personally meaningful as it was, I must admit that my personal passion for baseball goes back even further, stoked in the fires of the mid-to-late 1970s American League East pennant races. My family lived just outside of Baltimore for a couple of years, and I became simultaneously obsessed with baseball cards and the Baltimore Orioles, who were eternally locked in competition with the Boston Red Sox and the hated New York Yankees at that time. Led by manager Earl Weaver--at once a fiery, umpire-baiting madman and a pioneering supercomputing analytical manager; dominating, glamorous pitcher Jim Palmer, surely the inspiration for Sam Malone; youthful slugger and first-ballot Hall of Famer Eddie Murray; Vietnam vet centerfielder Al "Bumblebee" Bumbry; aging wily veteran third baseman Brooks Robinson; and a host of role players deployed at just the right time, like so many miners in Weaver's grand Stratego game (Mark Belanger, Terry Crowley, Kiko Garcia, John Lowenstein, Tippy Martinez, Gary Roenicke, Don Stanhouse, Tim Stoddard)--the Orioles of those years were a fundamentally sound, steady contrast to the drama of the Bronx Zoo Yankees and the Greek tragedy that was the Red Sox. Besides the Oakland A's run from 1972-74, either the Orioles, Red Sox or Yankees represented the American League in every World Series in the 70's, a remarkable run in a remarkable decade, for the game and for the society surrounding it. And Dan Epstein captures that decade remarkably well in Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s.
This book will satisfy both the uber-fan and the more sociologically-inclined, as Epstein balances the statistical and the cultural and perfectly as a fork on a fondue pot. He convincingly argues that the social revolution ushered in by the tumult of the 1960's finally exploded into baseball at the beginning of the 1970's, with three events in particular, of arguably varying degrees of importance, signaling the sea change that was coming.
In January of 1970, outfielder Curt Flood brought suit against Major League Baseball, challenging the reserve clause that uniquely allowed baseball teams to "own" a player until such time that the owner decided to trade or release him. When that player's contract expired, his only recourse in the event of stalled contract negotiations was to hold out until one side blinked. Flood, a uniquely gifted player (and the author of the fascinating memoir The Way It Is) and the nascent players union, led by the visionary Marvin Miller, challenged that clause, essentially sacrificing Flood's career for a right taken for granted today. Meanwhile, the summer saw the publication of Jim Bouton's Ball Four, possibly the most explosive sports book (for its time) ever published, revealing the scandalous drinking and carousing habits of big league ballplayers, as well as the use of amphetamines (particularly after a night of drinking and carousing).
Finally, on June 12, 1970, Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis, an iconoclastic, outspoken black man with a foot in both the political and lifestyle camps of the counterculture, did the unthinkable, the inconceivable, the impossible. Two days before...:
The Pirates had just finished a series with the Giants in San Francisco and flown down to San Diego, where their four-game series against the Padres was scheduled to commence that Friday. A native of Los Angeles, Ellis decided to take advantage of his day off by dropping acid, renting a car, and driving up to L.A. (apparently in that order) to see some pals. They spent Wednesday night smoking weed and drinking screwdrivers until the sun came up, whereupon Ellis finally crashed. Upon awakening, Ellis dropped another tab of acid; after all, he reasoned, he wasn't slated to pitch again until Friday. Unfortunately, as one of his friends soon informed him, it was Friday--Ellis had completely slept through Thursday (p. 18).
Now I know that some of you know where this is headed, because this story is part of the subterranean lore of baseball, still thought by many to be as apocryphal as Babe Ruth's calling a home run in the World Series or George Washington chopping down the cherry tree after shattering his bat on a nasty split-fingered fastball from Tom Paine. But it's true, my friend, it's all true. Not only did Dock Ellis make it from L.A. to San Diego in time for his scheduled start... tripping on acid, not only did he start the game, not only did he win the game, not only did he complete(!) the game (which a lot of pitchers did back in those days before the overspecialization of middle relievers and closers, and this with a five-man rotation, mind you, which Epstein reveals was pioneered by Tommy Lasorda with the Dodgers,... oh, sorry), Dock Ellis, despite eight walks and a hit batter, threw a frickin' no-hitter tripping balls-out on L.S.D. on June 12, 1970. The psychedelic revolution had come to baseball, and the Louisville Slugger of consensus reality exploded like a bumped Pinto.
So many changes, so much drama: the "innovations" of the designated hitter and artificial turf, and the adaptations to them by savvy teams and managers; the racial dynamics overlaying Hank Aaron's overtaking of Babe Ruth's career home run record; the continued emergence of Latin American stars, in the shadow of Roberto Clemente's tragic and heroic death; the Oakland A's "Mustache Gang" and the Big Red Machine, the postseason heroics of Carlton Fisk and Reggie Jackson; the San Diego Chicken and Disco Demolition Night.
Unsung heroes also emerge from the narrative. Dick Allen, stigmatized as a "moody," militant black man because he didn't automatically defer to the prescribed authority figures, mentoring young players at every step of his nomadic career; the cerebral ironman Mike Marshall, speeding the evolution of the relief pitcher through his kinesiological experiments; Whitey Herzog, building speedy winning teams on the "plastic grass" in Kansas City and St. Louis; the crafty Cuban Luis Tiant, whose ever-present cigar, unorthodox throwing motion and Monsanto-manufactured afro toupee covered the soul of an intense competitor (and whose defection from the Red Sox to the Yankees was, I would argue, second in pragmatic and traumatic significance only to Babe Ruth's); and, my personal favorite, Bill "The Spaceman" Lee, the soft-throwing lefty whose skill at throwing off-speed pitches was matched only by his irreverence for the archaic authoritarianism which pervaded the game.
It is hard not to consider all of these men (not to mention such originals as Lou Brock, Steve Carlton, Rollie Fingers, Joe Morgan, Dave Parker, Pete Rose, Willie Stargell) as giants who strode the earth, the likes of which will be never seen again, exotic creatures like Mark "The Bird" Fidrych talking to the ball or Carlton Fisk willing a home run in '75 with his bizarre New Hampshire body voodoo. Never again.
I mean, unless you count Kirk Gibson in '88, or the Red Sox coming back against the Yankees in '04. Heck, just this season, we saw Oakland A unknown Dallas Braden's upbraiding of self-centered punk slugger Alex Rodriguez, followed quickly by his emotional perfect game on Mother's Day, which he dedicated to his late mother while his grandmother was in the stands watching (and then she told A-Rod where to go!). Plus the emotionally overwhelming spectacle of umpire Jim Joyce blowing the call that lost Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, followed by the grace and dignity of both men's responses. What can I say but, "Play ball!"
Home Team: Coaching the Saints and New Orleans Back to Life, by Sean Payton and Ellis Henigan. New American Library, $24.95. 295 pages.
Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s, by Dan Epstein. Thomas Dunne Books, $25.99. 340 pages.
It may be hard to believe for those of you who know me only through my writings, but my mind doesn't occupy itself solely with classic literature, ideas of elevated philosophical import and the most pressing socio-economic issues of our time. I also enjoy bringing my piercing intellect, urbane wit and unbridled passion to the appreciation of those great American pastimes. baseball and American football (as distinguished from the subtle variation known as Canadian football, and the not-so-subtle variation known as "soccer," or "Anti-American football"). Despite my notable lack of success this season in fantasy baseball. I consider myself a serious and well-informed fan with a head for vitally important statistical information, known to most women by the term "trivia," (did you know Drew Brees is the third Purdue quarterback to win the Super Bowl, along with Len Dawson and Bob Griese? Look out, Alabama [Bart Starr, Joe Namath, Ken Stabler]!).
Thus, with baseball beyond the All-Star break and NFL teams breaking training camp, I decided to take some time out from my usual summer tradition of rereading all of Shakespeare's work (in the original English, of course) to sample a couple of recently-published sports books, both of intensely personal interest.
Before the 2009 season, I think I can say that my decades-long passion for the New Orleans Saints legitimately earned me the sobriquet "long-suffering." I remember the Aints, Ken Stabler handing off to Earl Campbell when both were well beyond their prime, dropping an almost-full plate of food when it was clear the team had not come to play in their first playoff game against the Vikings in 1987 (in all fairness, as fondly as I recall Jim Mora, I believe a more fliexible coach would have had the 1987-1991 Saints in the Super Bowl at least once ["Turn Perriman loose, and let Hebert throw the damn ball to him!!"]). My then-infant daughter burst into tears when I was unable to contain myself during the first playoff victory against the Rams ("But Zora, it's the Rams! The freakin' Rams!"). That the Super Bowl victory happened approximately four and a half years after the worst unnatural disaster in U.S. history added that much more drama, especially given the fact that so many of the key individuals contributing to that victory (Coach Sean Payton, players Drew Brees, Reggie Bush, Marques Colston, Jahri Evans, Scott Fujita) arrived very soon after, with no illusions about the state of the still-recovering city. So I was anxious to see if Payton would be able to transcend the usual cliches his memoir Home Team: Coaching the Saints and New Orleans Back to Life.
Fortunately, I would argue that Payton successfully avoided the most egregious pitfalls of the coaching memoir. The first is the motivational tome, which tends to rely on metaphors identifying the coach as either a field general or c.e.o., thereby preparing the writer/coach for a second career as a corporate motivational speaker. With his love for and wardrobe identification with laid-back country crooner Kenny Chesney (the photo presence count in the book is Drew Brees four, Chesney three), I don't think Payton is cut from that cloth. The other trap, more ubiquitous in football than in other sports, is the memoir as extended Christian testimonial. You know what? I read the whole damn book, and I don't know if Sean Payton is a Christian or not. Purely statistically speaking, he probably is, not that it's any of my business. And, praise the Lord, hallelujah, amen, he didn't make it any of my business.
The first few chapters are given to a brief pre-Saints biography, one that is both fairly typical of the nomadic life of the football player-turned-coach, and very unique. After a distinguished quarterbacking career at the University of Eastern Illinois, a brief professional playing career brings Payton from Chicago (Arena League) to Ottawa to Philadelphia (as a scab... excuse me, replacement player during the NFL strike), and finally, London, before embarking on a coaching career. Along the way, NFL coaching legend Bill Parcells becomes an important mentor, and Payton comes this close to taking the Oakland Raiders head coaching job, which would have meant working for owner Al Davis, the eccentric and once-brilliant football mind whose recent stubbornness and erratic personnel decisions have made a once-proud franchise a laughingstock.
After Payton takes the Saints job, the portrait that emerges is one of a master motivator and a gutsy, risk-taking tactician. The reader doesn't come away awed by a Bill Walsh- or Bill Belichick-like intellect, one whose innovations will change the way the game is played (leave that for defensive coordinator Gregg Williams). But I think it could be argued that his tutelage has turned Drew Brees and Darren Sharper from NFL stars to NFL Hall of Famers. I don't think Payton inspires the blend of respect tinged with fear that coaches from Vince Lombardi to Parcells to Tom Coughlin have made the template for a football coach in a lot of people's minds. But I do think his methods inspire similar run-through-a-brick-wall loyalties (or, in Fujita's case, surf through a waterpark wooden fence [p. 171]).
Much is made of the emotional and logistical challenges faced in post-Katrina New Orleans (a hellish pharmacy run probably came close to making Payton having to choose between his new job and his marriage, with good reason [pp. 69-70]). Given the unique circumstances, Payton makes some interesting choices describing the 2006 season. Following the nightmare of 2005, which saw the team's home games shifted to San Antonio and called into question the future of the team in New Orleans, the Saints capped off a remarkable run with an emotional playoff win against the Philadelphia Eagles, followed by their first-ever appearance in the NFC Championship, a disappointing 39-14 loss to the Chicago Bears in frigid, snowy conditions. For most teams, under most circumstances, a historical playoff run is the story of the season, and certainly the story of that section of the coach's memoir. But there was a bigger story for this team, and this city, and this coach, and Payton and co-writer Ellis Henican devote the 10 pages of Chapter 16 to the return to the Superdome, probably the most emotional chapter in the book.
On September 25, 2006, the Saints finally returned to their home stadium, approximately 13 months after it symbolized, to so many, the tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina and the criminally incompetent governmental response to it. Regional and divisional rivals the Atlanta Falcons would be visiting, and the eyes of the world would be back on New Orleans, through Monday Night Football, enhanced by the presence of U2 and Green Day, performing before the game. Recognizing the need to prepare his team for this unprecedented gametime situation, Payton reached down deep during the Friday practice before the game.
Gathering his team on the fifty-yard line, Payton introduced them to two Superdome officials who stayed through the Katrina aftermath. Then he gave the signal:
The lights went down. The Dome stayed dark for a moment. Then both the new Jumbotrons lit up, and a powerful highlights video filled the screen. Not the kind of highlights that usually play before a football game. These were highlights of Katrina. Lowlights may be a better word.
The video was just five minutes long. But I swear, it was the most emotional five minutes of tape I'd ever seen. The rising water, the people's faces, the houses with X's on the doors letting the rescuers know many bodies were inside. Those thick New Orleans accents. Very, very powerful stuff from beginning to end. And when the video was finished, these images of Katrina gave way to a song--the throaty exuberance of Hank Williams, Jr. singing "Are You Ready for Some Football?"--the Monday Night Football theme (pp. 130-131).
Everything is encapsulated in those moments. There's a coach preparing his team for an important game. An emotional acknowledgement of the triviality of that game, compared to the moral gravity of recent events not just in that city, but within that very building. A dramatic reminder that the trivial game is to be played on one of the largest stages in the world, and is therefore transformed in such a way that transcends the action on the field.
The Saints won 23-3, and I think it can be argued that a city and its people were able to look to the future with a little more hope, hope that turned to unadulterated joy when Tracy Porter made his way toward the end zone three and a half years later. And I think we all recall that storybook ending, right?
As much as I enjoyed reliving the Saints' Super Bowl victory, and as personally meaningful as it was, I must admit that my personal passion for baseball goes back even further, stoked in the fires of the mid-to-late 1970s American League East pennant races. My family lived just outside of Baltimore for a couple of years, and I became simultaneously obsessed with baseball cards and the Baltimore Orioles, who were eternally locked in competition with the Boston Red Sox and the hated New York Yankees at that time. Led by manager Earl Weaver--at once a fiery, umpire-baiting madman and a pioneering supercomputing analytical manager; dominating, glamorous pitcher Jim Palmer, surely the inspiration for Sam Malone; youthful slugger and first-ballot Hall of Famer Eddie Murray; Vietnam vet centerfielder Al "Bumblebee" Bumbry; aging wily veteran third baseman Brooks Robinson; and a host of role players deployed at just the right time, like so many miners in Weaver's grand Stratego game (Mark Belanger, Terry Crowley, Kiko Garcia, John Lowenstein, Tippy Martinez, Gary Roenicke, Don Stanhouse, Tim Stoddard)--the Orioles of those years were a fundamentally sound, steady contrast to the drama of the Bronx Zoo Yankees and the Greek tragedy that was the Red Sox. Besides the Oakland A's run from 1972-74, either the Orioles, Red Sox or Yankees represented the American League in every World Series in the 70's, a remarkable run in a remarkable decade, for the game and for the society surrounding it. And Dan Epstein captures that decade remarkably well in Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging '70s.
This book will satisfy both the uber-fan and the more sociologically-inclined, as Epstein balances the statistical and the cultural and perfectly as a fork on a fondue pot. He convincingly argues that the social revolution ushered in by the tumult of the 1960's finally exploded into baseball at the beginning of the 1970's, with three events in particular, of arguably varying degrees of importance, signaling the sea change that was coming.
In January of 1970, outfielder Curt Flood brought suit against Major League Baseball, challenging the reserve clause that uniquely allowed baseball teams to "own" a player until such time that the owner decided to trade or release him. When that player's contract expired, his only recourse in the event of stalled contract negotiations was to hold out until one side blinked. Flood, a uniquely gifted player (and the author of the fascinating memoir The Way It Is) and the nascent players union, led by the visionary Marvin Miller, challenged that clause, essentially sacrificing Flood's career for a right taken for granted today. Meanwhile, the summer saw the publication of Jim Bouton's Ball Four, possibly the most explosive sports book (for its time) ever published, revealing the scandalous drinking and carousing habits of big league ballplayers, as well as the use of amphetamines (particularly after a night of drinking and carousing).
Finally, on June 12, 1970, Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis, an iconoclastic, outspoken black man with a foot in both the political and lifestyle camps of the counterculture, did the unthinkable, the inconceivable, the impossible. Two days before...:
The Pirates had just finished a series with the Giants in San Francisco and flown down to San Diego, where their four-game series against the Padres was scheduled to commence that Friday. A native of Los Angeles, Ellis decided to take advantage of his day off by dropping acid, renting a car, and driving up to L.A. (apparently in that order) to see some pals. They spent Wednesday night smoking weed and drinking screwdrivers until the sun came up, whereupon Ellis finally crashed. Upon awakening, Ellis dropped another tab of acid; after all, he reasoned, he wasn't slated to pitch again until Friday. Unfortunately, as one of his friends soon informed him, it was Friday--Ellis had completely slept through Thursday (p. 18).
Now I know that some of you know where this is headed, because this story is part of the subterranean lore of baseball, still thought by many to be as apocryphal as Babe Ruth's calling a home run in the World Series or George Washington chopping down the cherry tree after shattering his bat on a nasty split-fingered fastball from Tom Paine. But it's true, my friend, it's all true. Not only did Dock Ellis make it from L.A. to San Diego in time for his scheduled start... tripping on acid, not only did he start the game, not only did he win the game, not only did he complete(!) the game (which a lot of pitchers did back in those days before the overspecialization of middle relievers and closers, and this with a five-man rotation, mind you, which Epstein reveals was pioneered by Tommy Lasorda with the Dodgers,... oh, sorry), Dock Ellis, despite eight walks and a hit batter, threw a frickin' no-hitter tripping balls-out on L.S.D. on June 12, 1970. The psychedelic revolution had come to baseball, and the Louisville Slugger of consensus reality exploded like a bumped Pinto.
So many changes, so much drama: the "innovations" of the designated hitter and artificial turf, and the adaptations to them by savvy teams and managers; the racial dynamics overlaying Hank Aaron's overtaking of Babe Ruth's career home run record; the continued emergence of Latin American stars, in the shadow of Roberto Clemente's tragic and heroic death; the Oakland A's "Mustache Gang" and the Big Red Machine, the postseason heroics of Carlton Fisk and Reggie Jackson; the San Diego Chicken and Disco Demolition Night.
Unsung heroes also emerge from the narrative. Dick Allen, stigmatized as a "moody," militant black man because he didn't automatically defer to the prescribed authority figures, mentoring young players at every step of his nomadic career; the cerebral ironman Mike Marshall, speeding the evolution of the relief pitcher through his kinesiological experiments; Whitey Herzog, building speedy winning teams on the "plastic grass" in Kansas City and St. Louis; the crafty Cuban Luis Tiant, whose ever-present cigar, unorthodox throwing motion and Monsanto-manufactured afro toupee covered the soul of an intense competitor (and whose defection from the Red Sox to the Yankees was, I would argue, second in pragmatic and traumatic significance only to Babe Ruth's); and, my personal favorite, Bill "The Spaceman" Lee, the soft-throwing lefty whose skill at throwing off-speed pitches was matched only by his irreverence for the archaic authoritarianism which pervaded the game.
It is hard not to consider all of these men (not to mention such originals as Lou Brock, Steve Carlton, Rollie Fingers, Joe Morgan, Dave Parker, Pete Rose, Willie Stargell) as giants who strode the earth, the likes of which will be never seen again, exotic creatures like Mark "The Bird" Fidrych talking to the ball or Carlton Fisk willing a home run in '75 with his bizarre New Hampshire body voodoo. Never again.
I mean, unless you count Kirk Gibson in '88, or the Red Sox coming back against the Yankees in '04. Heck, just this season, we saw Oakland A unknown Dallas Braden's upbraiding of self-centered punk slugger Alex Rodriguez, followed quickly by his emotional perfect game on Mother's Day, which he dedicated to his late mother while his grandmother was in the stands watching (and then she told A-Rod where to go!). Plus the emotionally overwhelming spectacle of umpire Jim Joyce blowing the call that lost Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga, followed by the grace and dignity of both men's responses. What can I say but, "Play ball!"
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Splendor and Serendipity
While vacationing recently in Edward Abbey country (Arizona/Utah), I was saddened to hear of the death of Harvey Pekar, at age 70. Pekar was the long-time writer of American Splendor, a comic portraying the trials and travails of Harvey Pekar - hospital file clerk, Jewish curmudgeon, hipster scholar of classic jazz, working-class intellectual. Although not blessed with artistic talent, he collaborated with numerous comic artists, most famously R. Crumb, to create a fascinating autubiographical chronicle that broadened the possibilities of what the medium of comics could convey, years before the efforts of Alison Bechdel, Joe Sacco, Marjane Satrapi and the many others who continue to produce quality work today.
If you're not familiar with Pekar's work, it ranged from the banal (the frustration of being stuck behind a little old Jewish lady at the grocery store line) to the sublime (dealing with cancer treatment), sometimes in one story (a story about helping a guy move a rug morphs into a surreal recollection of finding a dead sea mammal while hitchhiking around Galveston). However, while revisiting the American Splendor anthology on my personal shelf, I was unable to to find a story I particularly loved. Let me try to reconstruct it.
Pekar decides to work on a holiday for the overtime pay. It's voluntary, just a skeleton crew staff, and there will be a lot of down time, so he brings a novel he's been wanting to read for a while. It's by Isaac Bashevis Singer's lesser-known brother, who I am intentionally refusing to Google right now, just to preserve the spontaneity of the recollection. Suffice it to say, it's a kindo of archetypal Eastern European Jewish novel of the early 20th century, and Pekar has considerable time during the day to read it. Essentially, Pekar's story is an extended, illustrated book review, broken up at various points by the menial tasks he has to perform, which dramatically contrast with the action of the novel being described and analyzed and occasionally illustrated. There is a really effective sort of meta-Thurberesque quality, as Pekar the file clerk/intellectual appreciates the efforts of the writer/intellectual describing the action he's writing about, as the artist depicts Pekar's intellectual experience of Singer's intellectual product.
Incidentally, Harvey Pekar died on July 12. On July 13 and 14, we were in Moab, Utah and Arches National Park, a pilgrimage of sorts for me and my wife. When we first met and started dating, one of the first things we bonded over was our love of the work of Edward Abbey, the desert rat novelist whose seminal Desert Solitaire was inspired by his time working as a ranger at Arches National Monument, a world away from Pekar's Cleveland and the sensibility of American Splendor. But, as I was reminded by our visit to the wonderful Arches Book Company in Moab, there was an edition of Abbey's madcap novel The Monkeywrench Gang illustrated by none other than... R. Crumb. Serendipity is a fine thing.
If you're not familiar with Pekar's work, it ranged from the banal (the frustration of being stuck behind a little old Jewish lady at the grocery store line) to the sublime (dealing with cancer treatment), sometimes in one story (a story about helping a guy move a rug morphs into a surreal recollection of finding a dead sea mammal while hitchhiking around Galveston). However, while revisiting the American Splendor anthology on my personal shelf, I was unable to to find a story I particularly loved. Let me try to reconstruct it.
Pekar decides to work on a holiday for the overtime pay. It's voluntary, just a skeleton crew staff, and there will be a lot of down time, so he brings a novel he's been wanting to read for a while. It's by Isaac Bashevis Singer's lesser-known brother, who I am intentionally refusing to Google right now, just to preserve the spontaneity of the recollection. Suffice it to say, it's a kindo of archetypal Eastern European Jewish novel of the early 20th century, and Pekar has considerable time during the day to read it. Essentially, Pekar's story is an extended, illustrated book review, broken up at various points by the menial tasks he has to perform, which dramatically contrast with the action of the novel being described and analyzed and occasionally illustrated. There is a really effective sort of meta-Thurberesque quality, as Pekar the file clerk/intellectual appreciates the efforts of the writer/intellectual describing the action he's writing about, as the artist depicts Pekar's intellectual experience of Singer's intellectual product.
Incidentally, Harvey Pekar died on July 12. On July 13 and 14, we were in Moab, Utah and Arches National Park, a pilgrimage of sorts for me and my wife. When we first met and started dating, one of the first things we bonded over was our love of the work of Edward Abbey, the desert rat novelist whose seminal Desert Solitaire was inspired by his time working as a ranger at Arches National Monument, a world away from Pekar's Cleveland and the sensibility of American Splendor. But, as I was reminded by our visit to the wonderful Arches Book Company in Moab, there was an edition of Abbey's madcap novel The Monkeywrench Gang illustrated by none other than... R. Crumb. Serendipity is a fine thing.
Monday, June 28, 2010
How World Cup Soccer Explains My World
A few days ago, I was watching the Ghana-United States soccer (or, as I like to call it, anti-American football) game at my in-laws' house, with various members of my wife's family around and about, with my brother-in-laws Mark and Patrick and I following the game pretty much from start to finish. None of us are what you would call avid fans of the world's most popular game. We're all passionate Saints and LSU football supporters. Mark also gets pretty nuts for college basketball, I'm probably the most diehard baseball fan, and Patrick, from what I hear, really developed an affinity for curling while watching the most recent Winter Olympics.
Second round of the World Cup, single elimination, loser goes home round, featuring two relative upstarts on a stage typically reserved for Europeans and South Americans, not Africans and North Americans. I casually mention that I'm rooting for Ghana, for a variety of historical and political reasons (only African team left from the first World Cup hosted by an African country, first African colony to declare independence in 1957, their team name [the Black Stars] is a reference to Harlem Renaissace-era black nationalist Marcus Garvey). They know me, right, they know that even my sports loyalties are informed by politics to a greater degree than most. But my rooting for the team playing the United States, even in a sport that commands minimal attention from them, really seemed to cross a line of disbelief for them. It wasn't hostility, mind you, just a palpable sense of a lack of understanding on their part. I mulled it over for a while, and this is what I'm thinking.
My geo-cultural identification operates on two levels, I believe. I am a citizen of the Greater New Orleans area, which is both an insular world unto itself and, I would argue the hub of a region that extends north of Lake Ponchartrain, west almost to Baton Rouge, east into the Missippi Gulf Coast and south to the Gulf of Mexico. I am also a proud Louisianan, born and raised and then left briefly and then cam back and then left for a long while and then came back again. Lived in the major cities as well as Frierson and Gueydan and Haughton. I am fiercely, passonately ambivalent about the legacy of Huey Long. Jim Garrison, too. But I sure as hell hope Governor Bobby Jindal and Attorney General Buddy Caldwell can tap into their persistence and sense of moral outrage in the coming months and years of the showdown at BP Corral.
So, to return to the sports theme, my love for the Saints and (to a much lesser degree) LSU is obviously tied in with this love of New Orleans/Louisiana as place and region. Wear the t-shirt, wave the flag, jump and down and scare my daughter because I have instantly lost my rudimentary knowledge of basic physics and am personally attempting to recover the fumble I see in the televised game from....Buffalo, for instance. I think that experience is similar to what many Americans feel as patriotism, and what certainly will be defined as so by the right-wing pundits looking to score quick, button-pushing political points. More benignly, my two brothers-in-law, not right-wing zealots at all, just seemed flabbergasted that I was not embracing the U.S. soccer team in the same way we all do the Saints and LSU, as our natural birthright.
I hope your seatbelt was on, because we swerve over into politics again. As regular readers of this blog (hi, Mom!) know, I have been preoccupied, perhaps obsessed, with the idea of the revocation of the BP's corporate charter as punishment for the ongoing spill for which they have publicly acknowledged full responsibility. This would be in addition to criminal prosecution, pending the results of criminal investigations. It is my understanding that corporations are chartered in each state in which they operate, and it seems like the state legislatures of at least Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida would take the bold step of charter revocation. But on the website greenchange.org (which may or not be an arm of the Green Party), writer Gary Ruskin advocates for the revocation of BP's federal charter, which is filed with the state of Delaware. Therefore, the legislature of the first state to ratify the United States Constitution (on Decenber 7, 1787) has the power to apply the death penalty to this sociopathic corporate criminal. And let us not forgot that the attorney general of Delaware is Beau Biden, son of the notorious loose cannon who is the proverbial heartbeat away from the Oval Office, Vice President Joe Biden. Sure, he is bought and sold by the multinational financial interests which make Delaware the go-to state for polluting, tax-dodging, downsizing megacorporations, but anyone is subsceptible to grassroots agitatin', especially given the gravity of this situation and the anemic response to this point by the Obama Administration.
Still, it would be a shame if the momentum had to shift completely to the federal level, effectively acknowledging that Louisiana legislators and prosecutors are unable or unwilling to take on such a crucial constituency. Here in New Orleans, concerned citizens have cheered as U.S. Attorney Jim Letten has successfully investigated and prosecuted one crooked politician and criminal police officer after another. But it highlights the inability of local and state officials to do the same, time after time after time.
So here's a modest proposal. They say hair keeps growing after death, right? How about if the bodies of Huey Long and Jim Garrison are exhumed, the accumulated hair cut and stuffed into oil-fighting boom, accompanied by clipped hair from every statewide office-holder and state legislator, as well as local and parish officials from the most affected areas (sorry Mitch, I forgot you're a bit tonsorially challenged). That single boom, held as high as the Vince Lombardi trophy in Sean Payton's arms, will be the single symbolic fetish object for the corporate charter revocation movement, and, who knows, maybe the post-corporate revolution that follows.
Happy 4th of July, folks. But, at the same time, Go Black Stars!
Second round of the World Cup, single elimination, loser goes home round, featuring two relative upstarts on a stage typically reserved for Europeans and South Americans, not Africans and North Americans. I casually mention that I'm rooting for Ghana, for a variety of historical and political reasons (only African team left from the first World Cup hosted by an African country, first African colony to declare independence in 1957, their team name [the Black Stars] is a reference to Harlem Renaissace-era black nationalist Marcus Garvey). They know me, right, they know that even my sports loyalties are informed by politics to a greater degree than most. But my rooting for the team playing the United States, even in a sport that commands minimal attention from them, really seemed to cross a line of disbelief for them. It wasn't hostility, mind you, just a palpable sense of a lack of understanding on their part. I mulled it over for a while, and this is what I'm thinking.
My geo-cultural identification operates on two levels, I believe. I am a citizen of the Greater New Orleans area, which is both an insular world unto itself and, I would argue the hub of a region that extends north of Lake Ponchartrain, west almost to Baton Rouge, east into the Missippi Gulf Coast and south to the Gulf of Mexico. I am also a proud Louisianan, born and raised and then left briefly and then cam back and then left for a long while and then came back again. Lived in the major cities as well as Frierson and Gueydan and Haughton. I am fiercely, passonately ambivalent about the legacy of Huey Long. Jim Garrison, too. But I sure as hell hope Governor Bobby Jindal and Attorney General Buddy Caldwell can tap into their persistence and sense of moral outrage in the coming months and years of the showdown at BP Corral.
So, to return to the sports theme, my love for the Saints and (to a much lesser degree) LSU is obviously tied in with this love of New Orleans/Louisiana as place and region. Wear the t-shirt, wave the flag, jump and down and scare my daughter because I have instantly lost my rudimentary knowledge of basic physics and am personally attempting to recover the fumble I see in the televised game from....Buffalo, for instance. I think that experience is similar to what many Americans feel as patriotism, and what certainly will be defined as so by the right-wing pundits looking to score quick, button-pushing political points. More benignly, my two brothers-in-law, not right-wing zealots at all, just seemed flabbergasted that I was not embracing the U.S. soccer team in the same way we all do the Saints and LSU, as our natural birthright.
I hope your seatbelt was on, because we swerve over into politics again. As regular readers of this blog (hi, Mom!) know, I have been preoccupied, perhaps obsessed, with the idea of the revocation of the BP's corporate charter as punishment for the ongoing spill for which they have publicly acknowledged full responsibility. This would be in addition to criminal prosecution, pending the results of criminal investigations. It is my understanding that corporations are chartered in each state in which they operate, and it seems like the state legislatures of at least Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida would take the bold step of charter revocation. But on the website greenchange.org (which may or not be an arm of the Green Party), writer Gary Ruskin advocates for the revocation of BP's federal charter, which is filed with the state of Delaware. Therefore, the legislature of the first state to ratify the United States Constitution (on Decenber 7, 1787) has the power to apply the death penalty to this sociopathic corporate criminal. And let us not forgot that the attorney general of Delaware is Beau Biden, son of the notorious loose cannon who is the proverbial heartbeat away from the Oval Office, Vice President Joe Biden. Sure, he is bought and sold by the multinational financial interests which make Delaware the go-to state for polluting, tax-dodging, downsizing megacorporations, but anyone is subsceptible to grassroots agitatin', especially given the gravity of this situation and the anemic response to this point by the Obama Administration.
Still, it would be a shame if the momentum had to shift completely to the federal level, effectively acknowledging that Louisiana legislators and prosecutors are unable or unwilling to take on such a crucial constituency. Here in New Orleans, concerned citizens have cheered as U.S. Attorney Jim Letten has successfully investigated and prosecuted one crooked politician and criminal police officer after another. But it highlights the inability of local and state officials to do the same, time after time after time.
So here's a modest proposal. They say hair keeps growing after death, right? How about if the bodies of Huey Long and Jim Garrison are exhumed, the accumulated hair cut and stuffed into oil-fighting boom, accompanied by clipped hair from every statewide office-holder and state legislator, as well as local and parish officials from the most affected areas (sorry Mitch, I forgot you're a bit tonsorially challenged). That single boom, held as high as the Vince Lombardi trophy in Sean Payton's arms, will be the single symbolic fetish object for the corporate charter revocation movement, and, who knows, maybe the post-corporate revolution that follows.
Happy 4th of July, folks. But, at the same time, Go Black Stars!
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