Remembering Steven, A Bright Shining Light That Passed Through My Life

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”  -- from On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

I was reminded of this when someone mentioned Orange Julius:

Steven, who was a very distant cousin and good friend and mentor (in the fields of alcohol and drug intake) along with a friend of his from Finland (Matti) were staying with me for a few weeks in the summer of 1972 at my parent’s place in Berkeley. We were prone to long evenings of debauchery and had just enjoyed one despite the fact that Steven had an early morning class at Cal.

Steven returned from the class noonish and told us the following: “I was sitting in the Orange Julius before class drinking a coffee. I was totally spaced out staring into the void in the throes of a vicious hangover. Someone came up to me and said: ‘it’s far out that you’re tripping, man, but try not to be so obvious about it.’” Steven then fell into paroxysms of laughter as did Matti and I.

I’ve always cherished that story. It’s so very reflective of Steven who was so singular a personality that I made him a character in my latest novel. He had a huge impact on my life starting the day I met him when I was fifteen (he was just short of twenty, incredibly old to me at the time). Steven (never, ever Steve) was the first openly gay man that I ever knew. I grew up in a very different time in which homosexuality was not discussed as anything other than a perversion. It wasn’t so much that I and my peers grew up homophobic but more a matter of queerness not even being acknowledged. Learning that Steve was gay — which happened a few years into our friendship — made homosexuality seem not just acceptable but somehow exotic and interesting — though nothing I wanted to experiment with.

To say that Steven had a facility for languages would be a massive understatement. He learned Finnish — starting with zero words — in a few months. And he was soon fluent. Not surprisingly he got an undergraduate degree in linguistics. I don’t know whether he completed a post graduate degree but he easily could have with minimal application.

Toward the end of his life Steven was a homeless advocate. I know little of those years. I lost contact with him when I “settled down” and got sober, married and entrenched in a teaching career. I don’t know whether his drinking continued apace but he was only 43 when he died, perhaps of AIDS.

Back to the day I met him. I was at a large July 4th gathering in Marin County at which there were many Finns including a few of my cousins. I was seated at a large table on a lawn with two of my cousins desperately bored when Steven appeared (the fete was, after all, at his once and future home). It was as if Mick Jagger had entered the room. Though not a conventionally handsome man he had the presence of a rock star. Charisma oozed from his pores. Noting that we were drinking lemonade, Steven produced a bottle of vodka and proceeded to spike our drinks. 

My first experience with intoxication was something of a case of love at first sight — or sip. The experience was enhanced by Steven who possessed a ribald sense of humor. He was instantly impressed by my ready wit and perspicacity. Steven was further impressed that I could sing along to Springtime For Hitler from the film, The Producers.

Over the next ten years I saw Steven sporadically often visiting him in Marin, sometimes bringing along a current girlfriend. The July 4th gatherings continued but moved to Mendocino. There was a small community of Finns dominating a tiny town inland from

Mendocino called Comptche. We regularly visited there and Steven was often there as one of the residents was an aunt. 

The parties in Mendocino were wild, sprawling affairs with oceans of booze and large barbecues. I managed a number of sexual conquests there, except when showing up already with  a girl. When not satisfying my carnal desires I was in revelry with Steven and others.

There have been few things in my life that have indulged my ego more than the fact that Steven liked me so much. In addition to my wild and imaginative sense of humor he appreciated my ability to drink throughout the night and remain ambulatory and with the power of speech (if somewhat slurred). We were peas in a pod — one flooded with liquor.

Steven was a party waiting to happen. So was I. Between us we put Dionysus to shame.

I suppose given that I am a recovering alcoholic one might claim that Steven was a bad influence. Poppycock. First of all I would have embarked on a nearly twenty-year drinking career even if I’d never met the man. Steven provided me with some of my favorite memories of my late teens and early twenties. 

I don’t know what adjective best suits him. Many are required. Unique doesn’t suffice. I’ve used singular and it’s okay. Hilarious. Genius. Brilliant. Loquacious. Charming. Certainly flamboyant. Sometimes prissy and a little prickly. Insightful. Occasionally silly. Well-read. For me he was inspirational. He made me want to be smarter. He made me want to enjoy life to the fullest. He made me want to revel in what was special about me. To be true to my nature. 

I should add that Steven was — like the rest of us — far from perfect. He suffered occasional depression (I don’t know if it was as bad as mine). I know that despite loving, long-term relationships he fought against his own true nature and tried to be “cured” of homosexuality. I’ll never understand this. But he enriched my life and did the same for those around him. He never said anything dull or expected. He was an exploding star.

Anytime I hear a reference to Orange Julius, I think of him. Extraordinary chap. 

Plans Go Kablooey After a Serious Fall But I'm Soon London Bound

They’re called the best laid plains and it’s said they often go awry. No kidding.

The wife and I were going to fly to London on May 1 and spent five days there. Then we were going to take the train for San Sebastián Spain for a week in this glorious coastal town where we were going to do very little that did not involve either sitting on the beach or eating in one of the city’s many renowned restaurants. From there we were going to return to London stopping for a couple of days in Bordeaux, France on the way. It was all simply too marvelous.

A week ago today everything fell apart as my darling missus fell and broke her kneecap. Our lives were turned upside down. Yesterday I quit my job to stay home and tend to her. My daughters had alternated staying with her since last week but they have careers to return to. My spouse faces a surgery in about a week and then a long rehab. 

The worst of it all is over for her. There was great pain, there was being loopy on pain meds and there was dealing with the fallout from the fall. She’d spent 11 months meticulously planning the trip including finding just the right places to stay and mapping out our various train journeys. A woman who never has the blues faced horrible pangs of depression especially as she blamed herself for ruining a vacation I’d so looked forward to.

She’s better now.

So am I.

I was mostly crushed about what she faced and the tedium of being mostly bedridden as she is for now. I also felt the loss of the much anticipated trip.

However darling wife has insisted I still go on the beginning portion of the London part of the vacation and see the football (soccer to you, Yanks) match I have a ticket for. I have not yet fully transitioned from disappointment of the upturned vacation to excitement of the bit of it I get to enjoy but I imagine that will come soon enough.

At the emergency room and the orthopedic office I continued to be impressed by health care workers whether it is a nurse, an x-ray technician, an orthopedic surgeon or even a receptionist. They’re lovely people merely for doing the kind of work they do. Especially given that not all their patients are the most charming, patient, erudite of individuals. Waiting rooms can be depressing places.

I also had a medical appointment yesterday. Went in for an ultra sound that revealed that I have a hernia. This was not a surprise given the preliminary exam at my GPs and my own research after discovering a lump in my lower abdomen. It’s small and for now harmless and the feeling is that I should monitor it (while continuing normal activity). If it starts to change in negative ways then I should  perhaps schedule a surgery. The woman who performed the ultra sound was very nice. She put some warm goo on the area (which is not too far from what I’ll refer to as my private parts) then rubbed a doohickey of some sort over it — as was done when my wife was pregnant -- and looked at a monitor which recorded the images. The whole procedure lasted about seven minutes. One of the easier appointments I’ve ever had.

So there you have it. The latest update from your faithful correspondent. More to come in the coming days as I am free from work — and paychecks. More time to write and read and tend to my significant other. What a lovely woman!

Some of the Films I've Watched Lately a Few of Which I Enjoyed Greatly

The Royal Tenenbaums

The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) Anderson. I unreservedly love this movie. And I loved it all the more with this latest viewing. Dysfunctionality has never been funnier. Gene Hackman as Royal Tenenbaum steals the show with lines like these:

“Anybody interested in grabbing a couple of burgers and hittin' the cemetery?” 

“I'm very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a terribly attractive woman.” 

“I've always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember. That's just my style. But I'd really feel blue if I didn't think you were going to forgive me.”

“Chas has those boys cooped up like a pair of jackrabbits, Ethel.”

“Hell of a damn grave. Wish it were mine.”

“You wanna talk some jive? I'll talk some jive. I'll talk some jive like you never heard!”

“Hey, lay it on me, man.” This said when meeting a distinguished African American man. 

Royal, as should be obvious from the above, has a propensity for being totally inappropriate. But it’s not as though he’s surrounded by sanity. His family is a wacky crew. His sons (Ben Stiller and Luke Wilson) are, to put it charitably, eccentric (albeit successful) and his daughter (Gwyneth Paltrow) — who he introduces as his “adopted daughter” — is so far out there you couldn’t find her with a telescope. Attached to the family is more madness such as Raleigh St. Clair (Bill Murray) and Eli Cash (Owen Wilson). Only his ex-wife (Angelica Huston) seems at all normal and only just. This and Rushmore are peak Wes Anderson, for my money only Moonrise Kingdom has matched these two.

The File on Thelma Jordan (1949) Siodmak. Barbara Stanwyck stars opposite Wendell Corey. Wait, what? Wendell Corey the leading man? That can’t be right. He was always the protagonist’s buddy -- notably in Rear Window -- never the main man. Actually Corey  was fine in this picture though it would have been better served with someone else in the lead. Like a leading man. William Holden? Melvyn Douglass? Dana Andrews? Maybe they and others all turned it down. TFTJ is being shown on Criterion Channel as part of their "1950 the Peak Year of Noir" series. There’s always one basic problem with noir: you know the “bad guys” aren’t going to get away with it. The mystery, such as it is, is what is going to trip them up. The plot here is not worth detailing but suffice to say Stanwyck is the villainess though not half as interesting as she is in Double Indemnity. Of course this one wasn’t written and directed by Billy Wilder. TFTJ is a solidly mediocre picture, certainly no waste of time but nothing you’re going to much remember after watching it — unless you blog about it.

The Immigrant (2013) Gray. Simply a terrible movie. The first really bad one I’ve sat through in a long time. Marion Cotillard stars, or rather she goes through the motions. The brilliant Joaquin Phoenix similarly reads his lines and hits his marks. Jeremy Renner plays a thoroughly uninteresting character with little evident enthusiasm. The film starts off dark in confined spaces and one imagines we’re being set up for wide open vistas and large spaces with brilliant light much as John Ford would do. Nope. It stays that way through the entire running time. There is nothing interesting about the film except to imagine why some critics liked it. Cotillard plays an immigrant from Poland in 1921 coming to New York with her ailing sister. It’s a great set up but the rest of the film is a complete disappointment.

The Passenger (1975) Antonioni. Sometimes I amaze myself. Prior to my latest viewing I’d watched The Passenger once before many years ago and didn’t like it. In the intervening years I’ve read and heard so many good things about it that I decided it deserved a second chance. After all, I’d disliked another Antonioni film the first time I saw it (L’Aventurra) and thought it masterpiece after a second viewing. Guess what? Same thing happened with The Passenger. Who was that person who didn’t like it? What a great film! Jack Nicholson stars as a disaffected journalist in North Africa who assumes a dead man's identity. Turns out the recently deceased was running guns for rebels and had some serious enemies. As was his custom, Antonioni took his sweet time in telling the story with long lingering shots that allow the viewer to breathe and think and take in any of the various locales that the protagonist travels through. Maria Schneider co-stars. The Passenger ranks up there with Antonioni's best. The closing scene has got to rank with one of the best endings in cinema.

The Lady Eve (1941) Sturges. One of the ten greatest screwball comedies of all time for me and countless others. Hell, it's one of the great films of all time, period. In Barbara Stanwyck’s great career she was never better. Certainly never funnier nor sexier. Henry Fonda proved here that a great actor can play in any genre as this was a rare foray into comedy for him. A supporting crew of Eugene Palette, Charles Coburn, William Demarest and Eric Blore round out a picture worth seeing again and again. And again.

Prizii’s Honor. (1985) Huston. Such was the state of American cinema in the eighties that this was not only a very popular film but a highly acclaimed one. Honestly it’s not bad but sure ain’t great either. Jack Nicholson shines as always, Kathleen Turner is sultry, as always. Angelica Huston (directed by her Dad) turns in a nice performance (it won an Oscar?) the supporting players are just fine. But Huston who directed some of Hollywood’s great films (Maltese Falcon, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, the African Queen, The Man Who Would Be King, Key Largo) was not in great form in this his penultimate directoral effort and more importantly the script was not up to the actors. The line “do I ice her or do I kill her” is memorable but not much else is in this in one ear and out the other film.

Mirror (1975) Tarkovsky. Critic Antti Alanen called the film a "space odyssey into the interior of the psyche.” That’s as good a description as any. This was my fifth or sixth viewing and I found it just as mysterious, enigmatic and enthralling. It’s like free form jazz on film, hopping from one scene to the next, cutting in actual footage of the Spanish Civil War or a bullfight. A woman floats in mid air. A woman we haven’t seen before upbraids a main character. A barn burns. It’s a puzzle why we’re watching certain things but they are compelling and it makes sense just as it doesn’t. I love this film.

Bernie Gets Out of His Chair, a Short Story

Bernie sat alone in his house, slowly rocking in his rocking chair. The stub of a cigar in one hand the other opening and closing rhythmically to some unheard music. Bernie was staring at his fireplace which was empty of logs and clean, for it was late May and warm outside.

The morning paper was on the end table a few feet away and it kept occurring to Bernie he should read it. He read the paper every morning. Why not this morning too? But the paper seemed miles away. Any effort to pick it up, let alone try to read it seemed incomprehensible. 

Bernie’s cat, Rex, appeared at an open widow and meowed loudly to announce himself before leaping onto the floor. Bernie wondered where the damn cat went when it was gone for hours at a time. Sometimes it brought in a bird. Not today. Rex rubbed against Bernie’s leg then leapt onto his lap. Bernie absently petted the cat who started to purr like an engine. Did the cat love him? Of if they magically reserved sizes would Rex kill and eat him? If Bernie moved out and someone else moved in, wouldn’t Rex be sitting in that person’s lap? Bernie liked that Rex was big. Thought not initially happy about being stuck with Edith’s cat, Bernie was at least happy that it was a sizable beast, not some frou-frou sissy thing.

Damn Edith. It had been almost a year now since she’d left. Moved in for awhile with her sister, Clara, but a few weeks ago Clara told him that Edith had found a fellow and was living with him. Fuck that guy and for that matter fuck Edith. Didn’t like my moodiness, she’d said. What the hell was all that for better or worse stuff about, then? Sorry, Edith, I wasn’t perfect every fucking second of every fucking day. I was also a good provider, a good lover, a good friend. Helped with chores even after working all day. So I got blue sometimes, who doesn’t? I was a damn good father too. Look how while Clyde is doing. I was a damn good role model for him. Never hit the boy. Never yelled at him. Well fuck Edith anyway. Twenty-four years of my life I gave to that woman. Wish I could get it back.

Wonder what Clyde is up to right now. Just started a job at some big company. Hired fresh out of college. Damn good salary. Proud of that boy. Bet he was getting a lot of tail. Just like his old man had. Had. That’s the thing there. It’s all past. What have I got to look forward to now? Collecting pension checks. Making shitty dinners. Going out sometimes. An occasional ball game. Bowling league. Maybe a trip now and again to Tahoe to visit his cousin and gamble a little. No love in his life. Alone most of the time.

Bernie started to rock more vigorously. Rex was having none of it and jumped off. Bernie could feel himself getting more agitated. Depression usually followed. Could take a pill but not before trying to calm himself. The pills relieved the nerves but left him feeling dulled, tired, uninterested. 

Then the vision: In Nam, in the jungle, on patrol, VC in the area. His buddy Lange babbling nervously, the colored fella, Horton, chain-smoking. Then the explosion. The remains of the Lieutenant flying past them. Crenshaw lying on the ground his guts hanging out. Screams. Shouts. Bullets zipping everywhere. Horton, yelling, “I’m hit!” As he fell into the mud. Crouching, aiming but not sure, initially, where to shoot. Finally seeing where the gooks were and opening up on them. Watching a few charge toward them. Hitting one for sure, a bullet tearing through his throat. Thinking, Christ, I did that. For sure I killed another human. Never mind that he was a gook. But he kept firing. Might have killed another. Impossible to tell. So much shouting. All that blood. Horton crying for his mama. Used to be such a tough guy. No one is tough when they’ve been hit and are lying in the mud on the other side of the fucking world. The VC retreating. Relief but mixed with that post engagement adrenaline that seems like it’ll stay with you forever. The terror of what you’ve just seen and what you’ve done and how close you came to dying and how dead some people are that you’d been talking to twenty minutes ago. 

The vision faded. Gone at last. They came when he was somnolent. Vivid. Like he was watching a goddamned movie.

I was alive then. Not like this, not like sitting in a goddamned rocking chair in a house with only a fucking cat for a companion. This is not living.

Bernie thought about the gun in his desk drawer. He thought about the nearly full bottle of pills. They would do the trick. He thought about taking a drive to the bridge and jumping off. But he thought about Clyde. He didn’t want his son to have deal with that. He cared too much about the kid to do that to him. As for Edith: fuck her. Why would she care, anyway? Maybe it wasn’t too late. Bernie’s friend Grady had mentioned his sister being newly single and looking to meet someone. He’d initially dismissed the notion out of hand but maybe he should talk to Grady about it. He’d met her once. About his age. Not bad looking. Might be just the ticket.

The hell with it. Why not? Why was I so dismissive? Aww hell she’s probably met someone else by now. That was, what, a week ago. Maybe. Maybe I should take advantage of opportunities. Not be so dismissive.

That night Bernie gave Grady a call. Yeah, she was still available. Why didn’t Bernie come over for a barbecue on Saturday? He’d make sure Krista was there. She’d been separated from her husband for six month and was finally ready to date. The divorce would be final soon enough. Grady was sure they’d hit it off. She liked bowling and trips to Tahoe too. They’d have plenty in common.

The barbecue went really well. Grady’s wife had confided to Krista that it was a set-up and she didn’t object. Bernie had a nice chat with Krista and they made a date for dinner a few nights later. Bernie had made a point of only drinking beer at the barbecue. Usually he and Grady had a few snorts of whiskey. Bernie took no chances. He didn’t slur his words. Hell, he was pretty articulate. Downright charming. Krista was a healthy, handsome woman. A nurse. She’d be sensitive. Kind. Not like Edith.

That night Bernie — for the first time in awhile — slept like a log. Sure he dreamed about the jungle, the fire fight and some of the other shit he dealt with in Nam, but that was par for the course, never woke him up.

He spent a happy Sunday puttering in his garden during the day and bowling that night. When he got home that night Rex was showing off a rat that he’d made short work of. Bernie was proud of the mighty hunter. He also got a call from his son. Clyde was doing great, had moved into a new condo and was seeing a girl. What a great kid. He told his boy, you’re old man has a date in a few days. Clyde seemed pleased.

Monday morning Edith called about some left over business. Bernie was in such a good mood that he actually had a nice chat with his ex. He even asked about how she was doing. More than that, he told her about his forthcoming date. Edith was clearly happy for him.

Jeez, Bernie thought, sometimes your life can change pretty quickly, if you just get off the chair. All it had taken was a phone call. Yeah, sure, maybe it wouldn’t work out but at least he was trying. Staying in the old ball game. That’s what’s it all about.

Mafia Justice, Religion and Myths and Memories An Excerpt From My Journaling

I rather liked what I wrote in my journal yesterday -- I don't write everyday, but often enough -- so thought I'd share it with my readers (both of us).

Feeling a bit lost. A two hour afternoon nap will do that. It’s the day mostly shot. Could have watched a film. Read. Written. Didn’t need a walk or work out. Already had the former and it’s the off day for the latter. The old saw is that I needed the sleep. This is undeniable and I should it accept it and move on.

Accept it and move on. How often in my life have I needed to do that yet failed? Constantly. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Regrets are persistent naggers. Hovering around poking at the brain.

I read some years ago about the Italian mafia killing someone by putting him in a cage with a very large and hungry boar. The man didn’t stand a chance. Now that I think about it I can’t say for sure the the the boar was described as very large or even large. One assumes and sometimes accepts it as fact in later recollections.

We change our memories. Indeed our memories are not so much of actual events but of previous memories. We get things wrong a lot that way. There are many parts of my life that I’m shaky on. Things from my youth that I can’t be certain happened or at least not in the way I recall. The fact that I was high a lot of the time is no help. That’s one of the worst aspects of having been a practicing alcoholic: there are holes bored into your memories. In my early years of sobriety I recalled a lot that had been forgotten. Events, occasions, interactions that had been buried came flooding back. Some clear, others hazy. Many more memories remain inaccessible.

I know there was one person who I’d been friendly with who refused to speak me again after one night of debauchery. It was most definitely as a consequence of some things I said. I had — and not without reason — a lot of pent up resentment towards her. As it was I soon moved out of town. She subsequently died of cancer while still in her early forties, maybe late thirties. I’ve always felt bad about how things were left between us and especially about not knowing what in blue blazes I’d said.

I started this off with a memory of reading about a boar killing a man. Obviously a horrible death with terrifying last minutes on this planet. Likely the man had been a “snitch.” Criminals are rarely merciful in dealing death to those who they feel betrayed them. A garroting or a bullet in the brain is not enough. The victim must suffer. Imagine such a mentality. Imagine being in a line of work that requires one to torture people to death. I’ve read awful accounts of the manner in which Mexican drug gangs dispose of people. Many victims have done nothing to harm the gang. It makes one shiver to contemplate the level of evil that persists throughout the planet. The willingness to kill and torture without — seemingly — giving it a second thought. No remorse at all. I feel bad after a negative interaction, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I…. Not worth thinking about.

A lot of torture over the centuries has been done in the name of religion. Tells you all you need to know about the impact religion has had on the world. Bad enough they put prohibitions on certain activities, that they’ve demanded a cult-like adherence to bizarre behaviors, strictures and codes, they also kill and maim those who don’t believe or believe else ways.

Religions appeal to people’s tribal nature. You get to be part of a group. They can provide structure, rules to live by and give meaning to life and explanations for eternal questions. This has been of great comfort to many over the millennia. It is undeniable that religions have helped many, providing succor, nurturing, support and guidance. But look at the damage too. Look at some of the ludicrous beliefs and practices that people have developed. 

Still it must be acknowledged that myths are important. Myths explain, give meaning, are part of folklore, oral traditions and belief systems. 

Myths often require heroes. We’re not supposed to meet our heroes. We’ll inevitably be disappointed. I suppose this is because people make the mistake of transforming their heroes into something non-human. It is the humanity of a hero that makes her or him compelling. Who wants a robot as a hero? You should hope your hero is human and thus fallible. Of course there are certain sins we can’t forgive. Some wrongs are so bad they have to knock a hero of their pedestal. A hero who rapes can’t be a hero anymore. But maybe one who committed adultery can be given a pass. Heroism, to turn a phrase, is in the eye of the beholder. 

I’ve also been thinking about how nice a full belly is. Not too full. Gluttony leads to the just punishment of a bellyache. Stopping when you’ve had enough is not always easy, but is always wise. Pity those without enough. Appreciate a good meal and don’t abuse the privilege by over indulging. Same with so much else. Spirits for one. Take it from one who knows.

Nice to have written again today. Always a blessing and this journal is to be commended for providing an important service.

Imagine if I Had Total Power Over the United States -- Never Mind, I've Done it For You

Ever wonder what would happen if I had all encompassing power over the governance of the United States (of America)? Wonder no more. Here’s a sampling of what I’d do.

* Eliminate the electoral college effective immediately. Presidential elections would be decided by the popular vote just as in civilized countries.

*Roe v. Wade would be added to the Constitution. A woman's right to choose would be sacrosanct. 

*Similarly, the right for gay people to marry would be added to the Constitution. Love is love.

*The District of Columbia would get two senators. The same as Wyoming which has a smaller population than DC.

*The federal minimum wage would be raised to $17.50 an hour. No more serfdom.

*All three of Donald Trump’s Supreme Court appointees, along with the corrupt Clarence Thomas, would be removed from the court and replaced by progressive judges.

*Federal election day would be a national holiday. There would be same day registration.  The John R. Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act of 2023 would be put into law. 

*Citizens United would be struck down. Corporations are not people.

*Donald Trump would be forever banned from holding public office and would be held without bail pending trials.

*All student loans would be forgiven.

*The military budget would be reduced by five per cent for the coming fiscal year and an additional five per cent the following the year and yet another five per cent for the year after that.

*The IRS code will raise individual tax rates for billionaires and equalize taxes on capital gains and labor income so work isn’t taxed more than wealth. 

*Billionaires will pay a wealth tax, and tax loopholes that permit the rich to stash profits in tax havens will be eliminated.

*To reduce tax haven abuse and the offshoring of corporate profits, corporations will pay the same tax rate on their foreign profits as on their domestic profits, and all large multinational corporations will pay a global minimum tax rate.

*The following people will be removed from their current offices and permanently banned from running for office: Ron DeSantis, Josh Hawley, Ted Cruz, Mitch McConnell, Lindsay Graham, Kristi Noem, Tommy Tuberville and Greg Abbott.

*Anyone running for president, vice president or the senate will have to pass basic tests before their name can be placed on the ballot. These tests will judge their cognitive abilities, understanding of basic economics, U.S. History and the Constitution.

*All gerrymandered congressional districts would be, for lack of a better term, ungerrymandered.

*Federal prisons will transition into rehabilitation centers and away from being over-crowded, over-heated, halls of torture where people are brutalized and raped. Ownership and administration of prisons will be solely in the hands of the government.

*There will be vastly increased government subsidies for all forms of public transportation making it cheaper, more reliable and more energy efficient.

*Salaries for all teachers and staff (excluding administrators) will be increased by ten per cent.

*School funding will be increased commensurate with the earlier mooted reduction in military spending.

*Sweeping gun control legislation will be passed. Assault rifles will be banned. Background checks for the purchase of any gun will be required. Anyone wishing to buy a gun will have to pass a safety test.

*Possession of marijuana by anyone 18 or older shall be legal in all 50 states and the District of Columbia.

*All non-violent drug offenders will be released from prison.

*Universal health care for all. No one pays a dime to a doctor whether for an annual check-up or open heart surgery.

*Money bail will be eliminated for misdemeanors and nonviolent felonies. The accused are either freed without restrictions while their case plays out, or released under certain conditions like electronic monitoring.

*Inasmuch as sex between consenting adults is legal and paying a person for services rendered is legal, prostitution will be legal.

*Stricter anti-trust laws will be passed. Huge corporations such as Amazon, Walmart and the bigger fast food chains will be most effected. There will be renaissance of Mom and Pop stores, small farms and locally-owned businesses.

*The problems of the homeless will be addressed as if it is a national crisis (it is). Mental health facilities, rehab centers, housing, jobs and guaranteed incomes will be made available. Compassion not the cudgel.

*At every level of baseball from little league to the majors, the designated hitter will no longer be employed with the sole exception of all-star games.

*College football will be restored to what it looked like thirty years ago. Regional conferences will return. Traditional rivalries will be restored. Past bowl affiliations will return. There will be no “playoffs" but a vote at the end of the bowl season to see which two teams play for the national title. Also, all kick-off times will be announced a month before the start of the season and no team shall be required to start more than one Saturday home game per season after 6:00 PM local time.

The Awkward Beauty of Taxi Driver

I watched Taxi Driver again on Saturday. I’ve now seen it at least a dozen times, probably closer to sixteen. 

It’s an awkward watch. Uncomfortable. Squirming, you feel like looking away at times. Yet compelling. You can’t take your eyes off it.

Just watch Travis Bickle (Robert Deniro) take Betsy (Cybill Shepherd) on a date to a porn theater. Oh dear. For that matter any scene between the two of them is a tough go. Even when — maybe especially — she’s not seen because it’s a phone conversation. We watch Travis at a payphone in a lobby apologizing for their awful date, asking — begging — for a second date. Thankfully Scorsese spares us after awhile by eventually directing the camera down an empty hallway. We still have to listen but we’re at least spared watching the unctuous, fawning excessively strange cab driver pleading his case.

These are the worst of it but Bickle’s “social” interactions with everyone else are a hard watch. The man’s not right (rather the whole point of the film). We wonder what’ll he say, what’ll he do next. Even after a dozen viewings that question persists as if somehow this time it could be different. 

Who is this Bickle character? Start with Cary Grant in, let’s say, The Philadelphia Story as C.K. Dexter Haven (although you could use a score of other Grant characters). Then travel to the opposite end of the universe. Reverse up and down. Bickle is the antithesis of a glib, charming raconteur. He is every stilted moment we’ve ever had — doubled. He is that acquaintance we’e embarrassed for while we watch him ask that out-of-his-league woman for a date. Bickle is every awkward silence we’ve ever been in, ever social malaprop we’ve committed, every wrong thing we’ve said at the wrong time. He’s when we forget to zip up after taking a quick leak. 

But he’s so much more. He’s a lethal killer. A killing machine. A dangerous menace. A blight upon society. Travis Bickle has no place in society polite or otherwise. A ticking time bomb. Sure it all works out for him in the end but he’s back out there and the world may not be so lucky next time. He may not be spotted seconds before shooting a candidate. It might not be gangsters and pimps he slaughters given a second chance. We don’t think he’s “reformed” do we? I think not.

Oh yes, this Bickle fellow is a product of society. We made him. A lot of those who walk among us are lumps of clay ultimately formed by the voices, and the actions and the people around them. Look at Trump supporters. They spent years as empty vessels ready for just the right (wrong) moment and leader to fashion them into MAGA zealots. Bickle, the lonely figure had no core of beliefs, no philosophy. As an ex-Marine, he’s trained to follow. What to do when there are no leaders around? He's not a reader, not a connoisseur of any of the arts, not attuned to politics (he supports a candidate without really knowing his position on the issues). He has no religion or philosophy. No education (he says “some, here and there”). He is malleable. The harsh, the ugly realities of society combine with his own psychosis, his pathological loneliness to form him into an angry, twisted man. One who’s heavily armed. When trying to choose a gun to buy he opts for “all of them.”

Yes, it’s true and correct that he wants to save a young hooker. Good intentions. He hates the wrongness of a twelve-year-old being a victim of human trafficking. He can’t let it stand. Travis to the rescue. The right impulse. But it leads to vigilante justice. It also comes after his foiled plot to kill a presidential candidate. There’s a lot going on in that man’s head but it has no structure, no basis in ethics or morality. It is wild and untamed. Might kill an innocent man or a gangster. Awkward. 

I get more out of Taxi Driver with each viewing. Despite how it can make me feel at times. There’s the jazz soundtrack that is so mournful and portentous of a lonely, ugly ride through New York’s meaner streets seen through the eyes of one it’s meaner denizens. I don’t “like” the music, but the film would be sorely lacking without it.

There is of DeNiro in one of those performance that transcends “acting” and is closer to embodying. It’s a role — like Bogart as Fred Dobbs in Treasure of the Sierra Madre or Paul Newman as the titular character in Hud — that is more than memorable or iconic. It is part of the legacy of motion pictures.

Taxi Driver is very watchable because of DeNiro, Jodie Foster, Peter Boyle and the rest of the cast (including Scorsese’s own cameo). Viewers are also drawn to the exquisite cinemaphotography and the brilliant coloring of the climactic bloodbath. It’s a masterclass of directing by Scorsese and one of cinema’s greatest achievements. All this despite being really awkward. I mean seriously.

The Best Years in Films, Many From the Seventies and One Quite Recent

Stalker (1979) a great film from a great year

I'm happy to say that 2023 was a great year in films. At least for me. My five favorite films of the year were all worthy of the number one spot — even in an exceptional year. (See my top ten.) The next three would have normally found themselves among the top three or four and the last two, plus a couple in my honorable mentions would have been among the top five in most years. This was easily the best year for new releases in this century (albeit one that is only 24 years old) and exceeds any single year from the ‘90s or ‘80s. 

This got me thinking about how 2023 ranked among the great years in films. I naturally started my investigation by looking at the Seventies which has produced an amazing number of great films -- as I've detailed on this blog before. It was no surprise that I found a few years that bested 2023. There were five other years from different decades that stood out, two of them consecutive ones. So here are my twelve favorite years in films, with those films that I consider “great” listed.

1979 Manhattan, Stalker, Tess, Apocalypse Now, The Marriage of Maria Braun, Being There, Breaking Away. 

1975 Barry Lyndon, Dog Day Afternoon, The Man Who Would be King, Mirror, Three Days of the Condor, Jaws, Shampoo, Love and Death, The Passenger. 

1974 Chinatown, Godfather 2, A Woman Under the Influence, California Split, The Conversation, The Parallax View, Ali: Fear Eats the Soul.

1957 The Seventh Seal, Nights of Cabiria, Sweet Smell of Success, Bridge on the River Kwai, The Cranes are Flying, Witness for the Prosecution, Paths of Glory.

1940 His Girl Friday, Foreign Correspondent, Grapes of Wrath, The Great McGinty, The Shop Around the Corner, The Great Dictator, The Philadelphia Story.

1972 The Godfather, Cabaret, The New Land, Aguirre, The Wrath of God, Cries & Whispers, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, Play it Again, Sam, What’s Up Doc?

2023 Fallen Leaves, Oppenheimer, Godland, Zone of Interest, All of Us Strangers, May December, Poor Things. 

1973 Amarcord, The Last Detail, The Exorcist, Serpico, The Friends of Eddie Coyle, Badlands, Paper Moon, The Spirit of the Beehive.

1971 The Last Picture Show, A Clockwork Orange, The Emigrants, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Bananas, The French Connection.

1962 L’eclisse, Cleo Form 5 to 7, Vivre sa vie, The Exterminating Angel, Jules et Jim, Knife in the Water, Shoot the Piano Player, Taste of Honey, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

1939 Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Midnight, Stagecoach, Ninotchka, The Roaring Twenties, Destry Rides Again.

1946 It's A Wonderful Life, The Big Sleep, Notorious, Cluny Brown, My Darling Clementine, Paisan, The Killers, Shoeshine.

When Dirty Fingernails Cost Me a Marriage and Other Memories and Reflections

When I was in kindergarten I proposed to Stephanie Muller. She turned me down because my fingernails were dirty. Many years later I heard that Stephanie was a heroin addict. Years after that I was in a teaching credential program with her brother and from him learned that Stephanie was not only clean but working in a program in which recovering addicts helped people knew to recovery. Admirable. 

Stephanie’s brother (whose name I’ve forgotten) invited my wife and I over to his house for dinner. We had a nice time with him and his wife, who I somehow remember was a nurse, but we’d finished in the credential program and moved on. I’ve not seen or heard from him since that dinner. I suppose they waited for a reciprocal invitation but I quickly forgot about him and got busy with getting sober, my teaching career and my wife’s pregnancy, all of which happened soon after the dinner. Evidently I liked John but not enough to maintain contact with him.

I remember nothing about Stephanie other than the very early crush and the rejection and don’t remember much more about her brother other than he shared my fondness for foreign beer though he swore he’d never been drunk. I thought it odd that anyone who liked beer so much had never had one too many. Indeed I still find it strange though I’ve never doubted the veracity of his claim. Mind you there’s a lot about the lives of “normal” people that those of us in recovery find strange.

I recently thought of a woman who was in my large circle of friends in the late seventies when I was a hot shot reporter and a bon vivant. She was neither particularly attractive, nor accomplished, nor especially witty nor especially anything other than really, really nice. She always seemed to just be there. Everyone liked her but she never had a boyfriend and didn’t seem to be especially close to anyone. One night I was in my cups (as was generally the case back then) and it occurred to me that what she needed was a lover. I figured I would be doing her a favor by offering my services. Mind you, I was far more delicate and tactful in suggesting she avail herself of my body than it may seem to the reader. My offer was that we have a physical relationship with the understanding that it could develop beyond that ( I had no expectations that it would, for in those days I was averse to the very notion of committing myself to one woman). I was stunned — no, I really was — when she turned me down. So stunned that I repeated my proposition reasoning that she must not have heard me correctly. She again said thanks, but no thanks. Well I never. Life went on in our circle. Later she had a very brief fling with an eligible bachelor who by his own account to me, was merely using her. I rather think this story reflects poorly on men.

I’ve admitted on this blog that I was a cad (and perhaps a bounder) as a young man. I am not proud of this, though I’m not really ashamed either. Maybe I should feel terrible about the way I behaved toward women but what would be the point? I’ve spent enough time in self-flagellation over past misdeeds. Yes, I used women. I was callous. But I never harassed a woman or assaulted one. I suppose it sounds like I’m excusing myself in a boys-will-be-boys sort of way. But the truth is that I was no different than most men of my generation and far better than the majority.

More than that though I was a victim of a sometimes hellacious childhood with a schizophrenic mother. I was raised in a sexist environment, aggravated by my participation in the male-dominated environs of sports and I was a practicing alcoholic. Considering all this I wasn’t all that awful. (I guess not being all that awful is damning myself with faint praise.)

More importantly I’ve strived to be a better person. I raised two daughters — okay, my wife helped — and they are both strong feminists and able professionals and I’m proud of them beyond words. My wife can further vouch for my good behavior. 

I’ve always not just liked women but been fascinated by them. Endlessly so. Maybe the circumstances of my childhood contributed to this, particularly not having had a “real” mother and no sisters. Women I 've been with have often commented on how I seem to really appreciate them and on how loving I could be. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all. 

How would I feel if one of my daughter’s came home with someone like me? If he resembled me in my twenties I’d be mortified. If he was more like me in my late thirties and beyond I’d embrace him.

So I’ve gotten on a bit of tangent in remembering my rejected marriage proposal and years later meeting my intended’s brother. A lot of people pass through our lives. This is especially so for teachers. I was thinking recently of a woman I had a brief fling with in 1979. I could neither conjure her name nor an image of what she looked like. I found this both frustrating and sad.  Life moves pretty fast as Ferris Bueller famously said. You meet someone, know them for a bit and one day is the last day you ever see them. Other people stick to you like a barnacle whether you want them or not. There is one person who was my teaching colleague for over twenty years. We were classroom neighbors for much of that time and were generally friendly and confided in one another though two epic blow outs marred our friendship. We stayed in touch for awhile after I left the school we worked at. But now I think of him with utter contempt. Some of things he said and did are unforgivable. He was clearly a badly damaged soul who had a gift for endearing himself to people, despite, for example, being a bigot. Yet if I saw him tomorrow I would greet him warmly and have a nice chat. It’s what you do in a polite society. 

I’ve met new people since I re-started at the school in San Francisco where I used to teach. There’s only one person still there from my previous tenure and one other person I know from another school. I’ve gotten to like some of my new colleagues. The school is shutting down in June and I won’t return to it after my wife and my vacation in May so I’ll only be associated with them for another seven weeks. 

People come and go. Some refuse to marry you on issues of hygiene, others say yes. Some people become life long friends, while other’s hurt you or you hurt them or you hurt each other. There are, I note, very few people who I’ve gotten to know well that I “hate.” One springs to mind — again from my halcyon days in the seventies. He was well liked by many but had a nasty disposition and for reasons I never understood or knew, was contemptuous of me to the extent that he made that clear before a large group of people one day. Not something you forget or forgive. As it happened I rarely saw him after that. He’s a very small exception to most people that I’ve gotten to know. 

Yeah, things generally work out okay. I don’t think Stephanie and I were a good match anyway.