249e Where’s the Seesaw?

The Day Sinatra Called Royko a Pimp

March 28th, 2010

In 1976, Frank Sinatra played Chicago. While he was in town, newspaper columnist Mike Royko got a tip that the Chicago police stationed a uniformed officer at Frank’s hotel room door, round the clock. Always the champion of the common man, Royko got ticked off at the waste of taxpayer money. especially since Frank had his own legion of lackeys. So he wrote a column about it. The next day one of Frank’s lackeys hand-delivered this letter:

sinatraletter

Even though Royko liked Sinatra, he wasn’t going to take that lying down. He wrote another column. In that one, he announced he would auction off the letter, with an opening bid of $100, and give the money to the Salvation Army, because they helped drunks and loose women.

Cut to Vie Carlson, a longtime Royko fan. On a whim, she called Royko’s office on the last day of the auction and offered $400. She won the letter and held onto it.

carlson

“If the money wasn’t going to charity, I might not have bid two cents on it,” Carlson said recently by phone. But “on the spur of the moment,” she called Royko’s office on the auction’s last day. The woman who answered the phone told Carlson that Royko had left for the day, but it wasn’t too late to bid. Carlson glanced in a desk drawer and spied a check for $400, a Mother’s Day gift from her kids, and made the offer.

Weeks later, while Carlson was guiding a tour through her museum, Carlson’s Western Town, a still-active replica of the Gunsmoke TV studio that she and her husband built in front of their house, Royko called with congratulations on the winning bid. “I was thrilled!” Carlson said. “I told him, if nothing else, I could show it to the student groups who regularly toured our Western Town, to show them how they shouldn’t turn out. Sinatra sounded like a hoodlum. I mean, would you use the word crap in a letter?”

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Big Fan

October 7th, 2009

I don’t know if it’s even in theaters anymore; probably not. It opened small, and under the radar. But, Big Fan was tremendously great. Robert Siegel, who wrote The Wrestler, wrote and directed this. He’s a really good writer, and he deeply understands his characters. Here they are much like the beautiful losers who populated The Wrestler, and he does not condescend to this portion of America that has fallen off the radar. He, or his location person, also deeply understands Staten Island, as some of the locations they used were beyond perfect, and every Staten Islander would get why they were picked. (I should know; I lived there from age three till college.)
biggfan.jpg
Patton Oswalt stars, and he’s tremendous. An incredibly funny comic, which proves again my long-held belief that the best comics also make the best actors. Any fan of his should see this.

But don’t expect a laugh riot. It is a very dark, very uncomfortable film. And Siegel proved himself a master of “show, don’t tell.” There’s one scene I can’t tell too much about without ruining it. It takes place in a rest stop bathroom, is all I’ll say. And it references a classic film without blatantly doing so in a way that brings seven levels of tension to its own story. Really, this is a fantastic film, especially if you’re a sports fan, or know someone who is. And not just a casual fan, but a hardcore one. It’s no surprise to me that no one has seen this, and very few will. But it’s so worth it.

Shea It Ain’t So!

April 28th, 2009

I’m sorry, but I can’t get used to “CitiField.” In fact, since the bailouts and banking woes, my friends and I have been calling it “FedField,” looking toward the day when the government takes over Citibank.

But a better idea may be the one from Paul Lukas and his partners over at No Mas. Paul Lukas is the brains behind Uni Watch, the blog that covers all things uniform-related in sports, as well at the much-loved and long-gone zine “Beer Frame: The Journal of Inconspicuous Consumption.” No Mas are makers of fine smart-aleck T-shirts, which can be seen on their site, nomas-nyc.com. Together, they’ve come up with a quite fine idea for a shirt for diehard Mets fans:

shea

For Paul Lukas on Shea, go here. For more on the shirt, go here or here.

$2.50 from every sale goes to a NYC food bank. And, no, I get nothing by publicizing this.

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Serious Quote From a Funny Book

April 14th, 2009

From “Three Men in a Boat” by Jerome K. Jerome, which is one of the funniest books ever written. But this is different:

Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode some goodly knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where tangled briers grew very thick and strong, and tore the flesh of them that lost their way therein.  And the leaves of the trees that grew in the wood were very dark and thick, so that no ray of light came through the branches to lighten the gloom and sadness.

And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those that rode, missing his comrades, wandered far away, and returned to them no more; and they, sorely grieving, rode on without him, mourning him as one dead.

Now, when they had reached the fair castle towards which they had been journeying, they stayed there many days, and made merry; and one night, as they sat in cheerful ease around the logs that burned in the great hall, and drank a loving measure, there came the comrade they had lost, and greeted them.  His clothes were ragged, like a beggar’s, and many sad wounds were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great radiance of deep joy.

And they questioned him, asking him what had befallen him; and he told them how in the dark wood he had lost his way, and had wandered many days and nights, till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him down to die.

Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage gloom there came to him a stately maiden, and took him by the hand and led him on through devious paths, unknown to any man, until upon the darkness of the wood there dawned a light such as the light of day was unto but as a little lamp unto the sun; and, in that wondrous light, our wayworn knight saw as in a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision seemed, that of his bleeding wounds he thought no more, but stood as one entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof no man can tell the depth.

And the vision faded, and the knight, kneeling upon the ground, thanked the good saint who into that sad wood had strayed his steps, so he had seen the vision that laid there hid.

And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision that the good knight saw therein we may not speak nor tell.

Old Town Bar Hates the New Yankee Stadium

April 9th, 2009

The Old Town Bar has been a New York City fixture for more than 100 years. It has served everyone from corrupt Tammany Hall officials to famous authors and actors to hangers-on from Andy Warhol’s Factory to truckers and construction workers (Read some of the rich history here.)
Old Town
Still, it remains unpretentious, and one of the main reasons for that was owner Larry Meagher. Sadly, he passed away in 2007. One of the things he used to do was hang signs in the window, railing against some injustice. In a piece in The New York Observer written after his death, one of those signs is mentioned:

In the window of the Old Town last week, the bar picked a fight with Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter, whose Waverly Inn is arguably an ersatz and swanky version of the Old Town. Mr. Carter’s establishment, the sign screamed, is “restricted to an elite who get the ‘hush hush’ secret reservation number.’” The sign quaintly suggested that Mr. Carter return to his native Canada and take the “poseurs, rear-end kissers, shit-healers and half-assed celebrities” who form his clientele with him.

Happily, for regulars, and folks like me who live in the neighborhood, someone at the Old Town has kept up the tradition. The latest, just last night, was a masterpiece indeed. I’ll let the pictures do the talking.
Diatribe 1
Diatribe 2

John Cheever, Reconsidered

April 7th, 2009

From the blog of Michael Ruhlman, which is usually about food and food writing:

One of the unforeseen pleasures of having a blog is to be able to promote a friend’s work, especially when that work is so fine. Cheever: A Life by Blake Bailey is published today. For those readers who love literary biography, this will be an unalloyed pleasure. Not that Blake will need additional promotion–his book is reviewed on page one of Sunday’s NYTimes Book Review, Updike reviewed it (respectfully if crankily) in The New Yorker, all the major players are commenting. But more, there’s something about Cheever, and his fabulistic take on suburbia that plays to our enduring fascination with and loathing of life in American suburbs. I remember in high school when his big red book of stories was everywhere in my Shaker Heightsian suburbia, a book containing one of the great prologues of all time, an ode to an older Manhattan, and whose first short story, “Goodbye, My Brother,” is perhaps my favorite short story ever. Cheever could effortlessly throw in high flown phrasing, “where full fathom five our father lies,” and get away with it, and then fell you with the simply stated: “what can you do with a man like that?”

Blake and I met in Manhattan in our desultory post-collegiate youth, both of us intent on becoming novelists, and drinking far more successfully than we wrote. I managed to publish a few things in the NYTimes and he, well, he kept writing. I used to joke that he would become a literary biographer, which, to aspiring Hemingways, was like an actor dreaming to be Laurence Olivier and winding up Wayne Rogers as Trapper John. Blake’s first major book was a stellar bio of Richard Yates, a “landmark event,” said the NYTimes, a review written by Janet Maslin, the wife of Cheever’s son (which, long story short, resulted in Ben Cheever’s asking if Bailey would consider a biography of his father). Now he has written the definitive bio of the iconic chronicler of post-war American suburbia. Cheever lived a harrowing inner life, was a terrible alcoholic, the horniest man alive, according to a famous actress, a man who could be monstrously exploitative of young male students, but he was also a touching, sad human being. Blake gets it all exactly right. Again, if you like literary bio, there’s none better. Except for maybe Blake’s Yates. Highly recommended. It may well inspire you to read or reread Cheever himself, now republished in two fine Library of America volumes, edited by Blake, The Complete Novels and The Collected Stories.

Cheever

I read the Times’ review, and really want to pick this up. Here’s hoping it serves to revive Cheever’s reputation and his too-overlooked (in my opinion) talent.

In particular, Cheever’s short stories are brilliant. Here’s something from a piece T.C. Boyle wrote about them for NPR:
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222e

Scrabble Tile Molding

March 26th, 2009

This is my:

tiles

I want to make molding out of Scrabble tiles and the tile holders. Ideally, this molding will be at the top of the walls in the library/study I will someday have. Each tile will have a bit of Velcro on the back, so it can stick to the tile holder. And also so I can make up new words when I get bored with the ones that are there. Imagine a library/study lined not just with shelves of books you love, but also crowned at the top of the wall with words you made!

scrabble

A Whole New World

March 25th, 2009

Inspiring photo of the day:

whittle

Supposedly, this picture was taken by photographer Jack Bradley, and shows a boy named Harold Whittles, who just had a doctor put an earpiece in. This was the first time in his life Harold was able to hear.

[via Pop Culture Junk Mail]

Kosher Coke!

March 25th, 2009

Kosher Coke is in stores now! Well, technically, it’s Passover Coke, since Coke is still kosher the rest of the year. If you’re one of the few who doesn’t know what makes this Coke different from the other, it’s because it’s made with pure sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup. And there really is a difference in taste.

I’ve found two stores, so far, where it’s in stock. And, no, I won’t tell, for fear that there will be a run on the stuff. But if you are looking, you can spot it by looking for a yellow cap in place of the usual red one.

A Little Bit of David Foster Wallace

March 15th, 2009

I just read yet another appreciation of David Foster Wallace, adding to the dozens of things I’ve read about him and his work since his death. It’s well worth your time (Go here to read it.). ((Also, a good source for all kinds of Wallace stuff is The Howling Fantods site.)) Anyways, it made me think of one of my favorite stories of his — “Everything’s Gone Green,” which follows:

—–

She says I do not care if you believe me or not, it is the truth, go on and believe what you want to. So it is for sure that she is lying. When it is the truth she will go crazy trying to get you to believe her. So I feel like I know.

She lights up and looks off away from me, looking sly with her cigarette in light through a wet window, and I can not feel what to say.

I say Mayfly I can not feel what to do or say or believe you any more. But there is things I know. I know I am older and you are not. And I give to you all I got to give to you, with my hands and my heart both. Every thing that is inside me I have gave you. I have been keeping it together and working steady every day. I have made you the reason I got for what I always do. I have tried to make a home to give to you, for you to be in, and for it to be nice.

I light up myself and I throw the match in the sink with other matches and dishes and a sponge and such things.

I say Mayfly my heart has been down the road and back for you but I am forty-eight years old. It is time I have got to not let things just carry me by any more. I got to use some time that is still mine to try to make everything feel right. I got to try to feel how I need to. In me there is needs which you can not even see any more, because there is too many needs in you that are in the way.

She does not say any thing and I look at her window and I can feel that she knows I know about it, and she shifts her self on my sofa lounger. She brings her legs up underneath her in some shorts.

I say it really does not matter what I seen or what I think I seen. That is not it any more. I know I am older and you are not. But now I am feeling like there is all of me going in to you and nothing of you is coming back any more.

Her hair is up with a barret and pins and her chin is in her hand, it’s early, she looks like she is dreaming out at the clean light through the wet window over my sofa lounger.

Everything is green she says.  Look how green it all is Mitch. How can you say the things you say you feel like when everything outside is green like it is.

The window over the sink of my kitchenet is cleaned off from the hard rain last night and it is a morning with a sun, it is still early, and there is a mess of green out. The trees are green and some grass out past the speed bumps is green and slicked down. But every thing is not green. The other trailers are not green and my card table out with puddles in lines and beer cans and butts floating in the ash trays is not green, or my truck, or the gravel of the lot, or the big wheel toy that is on its side under a clothes line without clothes on it by the next trailer, where the guy has got him some kids.

Everything is green she is saying.  She is whispering it and the whisper is not to me no more I know.

I chuck my smoke and turn hard from the morning with the taste of something true in my mouth. I turn hard toward her in the light on the sofa lounger.

She is looking outside, from where she is sitting, and I look at her, and there is something in me that can not close up, in that looking. Mayfly has a body. And she is my morning. Say her name.

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