The Runny Pen

I just heard from someone who gave the best review of the new Jeff Bridges movie “Crazy Heart”. I quote: “That fucking movie broke my heart!”

It’s long been an open secret that Jeff Bridges is our finest American, male actor. You can say DeNiro or Nicholson or Freeman. But it’s Bridges. Think about his effortless dissolve into the characters he portrays in films as diverse as The Last Picture Show, Starman, The Fisher King, The Big Lebowski, Fearless, Iron Man and now Crazy Heart. Noted film critic Paulene Kael wrote that he “may be the most natural and least self-conscious screen actor that has ever lived”.

Bridges’ voice isn’t dubbed, that’s him singing the songs in the role of Bad Blake. If you look at him onstage, he is dead-on early seventies Waylon Jennings. That’s as much a compliment to the costume designer as Bridges, but his stance and unaffected drawl will make the hairs stand on your forearm. In a later scene with Bridges strumming a guitar on his porch in the late afternoon sun, without any help from a costume designer he looks exactly like Kris Kristopherson.

Actors have ticks, physical gestures they can’t shake. Pacino couldn’t lose that Scent Of A Woman voice for about three movies afterwards. Nicholson always sounds like the eight-ball from the previous evening hasn’t quite cleared his sinuses. But there is a scene in “Crazy Heart” where Bridges hits a register with his voice that I’ve never heard from the man. Fresh and honest, it was all Bad Blake.

Former major-league baseball player Scott Cooper directed this saga, his first screenplay and directorial debut. I’m sure he’s getting hammered with offers. Cooper says he set out to make a movie “that felt like it was straight outta the Seventies”. And he succeeded. He wanted to tell the story of our poet laureate Merle Haggard and he was able to do so through the Bad Blake character. He also wound up telling the story of Cash, Jennings, Jones, Kristopherson and Nelson. The story of country music before the genre slid down to what it’s become today; Cheez Whiz blended with 80’s glam-metal. I guess every rose does have its thorn, afterall.

In an era where movie studios believe 3D glasses and half-billion dollar, blood-thirsty space aliens are the only way to stimulate our adrenal glands, it’s nice to see a movie where a four year-old boy lost in a mall is just as terrifying. It will be interesting to see what Cooper serves up next.

The film was co-produced by Bridges and Robert Duvall who has a supporting role in the film which harkens memories of Duvall’s character in “Tender Mercies” so it ’s fitting to see him here. Jeff Bridges has been nominated for the Oscar four times now and driven home empty-handed four times. I’m thinking this year he goes home with a new, golden friend.

I don’t watch much TV. I like football and occasionally turn on CASH CAB while eating a meal, but I’ve never followed LOST or SURVIVOR or SEINFELD. People tell me I’m missing out, that I should watch television because I love to write and love good story-telling. But none of these shows hold my interest. I can’t make it through an entire episode, I’m channel surfing by the third commercial. The last TV show I remember allotting time to watch each week was HILL STREET BLUES, and now I’m revealing my age.

Recently, I reviewed my Netflix queue and noticed how many documentaries I’ve watched on presidents. I was scanning new material when I remembered catching a few episodes of THE WEST WING at Weisenberger’s pad back in ‘02, when he was still in Santa Monica and we were working together on a game show called THE CHAIR (w/John McEnroe). I remember my forked steak often hanging in mid-air in front of my mouth as I sat riveted the few times I watched. I was always bummed when the episode concluded. The credits listed Aaron Sorkin as writer/producer and I thought…ah, makes sense.

Writer of A FEW GOOD MEN, THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT and CHARLIE WILSON’S WAR I’d seen Sorkin speak at a Writer’s Guild seminar back in the mid-nineties. He was down to earth and forthcoming. He spoke openly about his cocaine addiction and the difficulties of writing without its fueling assistance. He never spoke down to the roomful of struggling screenwriters stuffing their pockets with free cookies. What I mean to say is that he wasn’t a lecturer. He was a fellow writer merely sharing the details of his journey and process. You got the impression his compulsion to work hard and fast was driven by a feeling that he was only a paycheck away from unemployment. He stayed late after the seminar, giving a little time to everyone, firmly shaking my hand and meeting my eyes when he wished me luck.

My positive encounter with Aaron Sorkin isn’t why I love the show. THE WEST WING is rich, layered, well-crafted drama that avoids many of the pitfalls of other shows. The dialog (spoken in HIS GIRL FRIDAY manner) is witty and engaging. Instead of characters spitting lines back and forth in an endless two-shot, the show developed the walk and talk shooting style where characters converse while walking towards a destination, exiting frame as another character enters, preventing visual boredom. And these teleplays distill complex issues, simplifying the political process for the laymen.

The fictional democratic administration of Josiah Bartlet (the show is known around D.C. as THE LEFT WING) balances the viewpoint on issues which dominate its side of the aisle. And Democratic characters are often depicted just as poorly as Republicans. In fact, President Bartlet (Martin Sheen) selects a particularly outspoken Republican woman as a member of his legal team and she is painted as fiercely intelligent, even heroic at times. Character motivations are revealed slowly with surprising twists, so it’s tougher to judge or dismiss them. Whether you agree or disagree with their stance, at least you understand their views. Even the toughest critics from the right admire President Bartlet’s fierce loyalty to his wife and children, Christian beliefs and support of a strong military.

Political insiders ranging from Dee Dee Meyers to Karl Rove say THE WEST WING is accurate, very close to the real deal inside the Oval Office (though a few unnamed sources online say that the recent Bush administration was closer to THE OFFICE). I’ve learned more about our political system from watching this program than I ever did from any Civics or Poli-Sci courses I took in college and high school. If students watched all seven seasons throughout their high school career, I’m sure voter turn-out would skyrocket.

The performances are sublime. Only the most intelligent actors are permitted to join the cast, there are no guest appearances by Steven Seagal or popular rappers. Each plot’s theme is supported by a sub-plot which mirrors it. The endless compromises made in the chess game of politics refract through the personal lives of the characters.

The main criticism of the show I’ve read from Washington players is the idealism of the characters. They say that by the time a political operative is selected to become a member of a Presidential administration, they are mainly power seekers all-too-ready to compromise integrity in exchange for career advancement. Even if that were true, who would watch a show about political burn-outs happy to sell their soul, hoping for economic gains in the private sector at the completion of their term?

Over 30 years ago, Richard Nixon popped our nation’s naive cherry, resulting in a deep mistrust of our government in the hearts and minds of many Americans. If The West Wing errs on the side of an audacious tendency to dramatize the nobility of civil service, patriotism and the responsibility of every US resident to participate in the political process, then I say we should encourage this fantasy.

At its heart, the show is about service, loyalty, intelligence, courage, disappointment and friendship. The characters bypass traditional family life in exchange for frustrating, mercilessly long days at a sub-par pay rate. As a result, they form a makeshift family.

The producers had the balls NOT to create yet another television program about cops, doctors or lawyers. Instead they created a series detailing the inside workings of the world’s finest democracy. What makes the show so original and compelling is that none of us have any idea what happens behind the scenes in The White House. It’s a glimpse into the core of our way of life. Forget THE SOPRANOS or M*A*S*H or fucking LOST.  THE WEST WING is the greatest television program to ever grace the airwaves.

When you tell someone that your grandmother died you receive a sympathetic frown. Their grimace lasts about three seconds, and then the frowner will zip right back into the groove of dialog they approached you with. This doesn’t offend me because I’ve found the response common, but I find it curious and telling about our country and modern times. Grandparents are revered in other countries but not so much here at home. Here in America, grandparents don’t really seem to count. They are brushed aside and resented for costs of admittance to a ‘home’. Which (if for no other reason) makes me proud to be Irish/Italian. Because in the culture of my family Nana not only counted, she was the most popular person.

Many grandparents lose their taste in clothing and stylistic flair near their sixties. Not my Nana. She wore Italian designers at formal occasions and The United Colors of Benetton when casually reading at home. Nana began practicing yoga in the fifties, long before yoga studios were as common as a Starbuck’s kiosk. She took me to my first opera “Porgy and Bess” saying it was a particularly good introduction for me because it was about drug dealers in New Orleans and she thought I’d like that. Unlike most grandmas, Nana never had blue hair or food in her fridge. I’d stop by on my bike ride home from junior high and she’d be knotted into a yoga pretzel, letting me know there was a wheat germ shake in the blender.

The short version of Nana’s obituary reads like this: Catherine Ana Maddux was born in Napa, CA in 1917. She married my grandfather after meeting him at an open air, big band dance in Monte Rio 1936. She worked as a supervising accountant at the Santa Rosa Junior College for 29 years. She had two daughters and a son, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.

Most of us grandkids attended SRJC and have fond memories and a strong education as a result. I remember meeting her co-workers and holding her hand when we attended Day Under The Oaks on campus. I choose not to mention my grandfather’s name because I never met him. He abandoned his wife and kids aged 14, 8 and 2 in 1950. He went out for a pack of smokes and never returned; what they used to refer to as an ‘Irish divorce’.

As tragic as this sounds, it shaped my Nana in strong ways. Rural Santa Rosa of 1950 was a close-minded and judgmental place for a single mother and she was the subject of gossip, labeled with the stigma of ‘divorcee’ (although she didn’t legally divorce the man until 25 years after his departure). It made her an underdog, an outsider. She befriended the SRJC president emeritus Randolph and his artist friend Marshall. My family had BBQs at their picturesque home off Mark West Springs Road where we played volleyball in their pool for hours. It was until my late teens that I realized Ran and Marsh were gay. And then I realized just how accepting, loving, non-judgmental and rebellious Nana was to befriend them in close-minded Santa Rosa of the fifties, only an hour’s drive north of San Francisco but light years away in mood and temperament.

Her daughter Mary fell in love with a Mexican after her year as a foreign exchange student, and Nana invited him to visit her in Santa Rosa. When Enrique arrived at the door after a three day drive from Mexico City the Santa Rosa police tried to arrest him, thinking he was a burglar. She scolded the police and welcomed Enrique and his best friend inside where she had food and beers waiting. Mexicans were treated like Muslims are today. Back then, Sonoma County had little tolerance for Hispanics who are now the life-blood of the wine country.

She attended my graduation from CSU Long Beach at 80 years of age. She picked my sister up from school every day. She was a mother to my cousin when his own mother abandoned him. She never stopped trying to learn Spanish so she could more effectively communicate with her Mexican grand-daughters. When my parents divorced she helped with any needed task, consoling her daughter Joanne through the difficulties of raising two kids on her own. Nana knew something about that experience.

For Christmas one year we bought Nana a sweatshirt printed with the word WHATEVER. She said it all the time. It is a word that can be confused with apathy but the way she used it was indeed the opposite. Whatever was her lack of judgement of other human beings. Whatever allowed life’s hardships to roll like water off a duck’s back. Whatever kept her focused on the simple joys of a glass of white wine and the company of her family at Sunday dinner. Though raised and buried a Catholic, whatever was her most Buddhist philosophy.

The image of my grandparents dancing to a big band on the banks of the Russian River in 1936 conjures an idyllic time. I’ve often imagined what it must’ve been like to fish the Russian River packed full of steelhead, completely devoid of pollution or fishing regulations. Going to war was honorable, defeating the evil villain Hitler a clear and noble cause. Why wouldn’t you trust your government, Nixon was barely of drinking age? You married your high-school sweetheart at 20 and had four kids before 30. A pension was something you could rely upon. Nana’s character was formed by what Tom Brokaw calls “The Greatest Generation”.

I am privileged to have had a final conversation with her four days before her death, two days before she slipped into a coma. She died that rare and best kind of death; in her own home with both daughters holding each of her frail hands until her final exhale. I am aware that I paint this perfect portrait of my Nana but in truth, she had no tolerance for Republicans, bigots or whiners. And I smile because at different times in my life, I have been all three. But she loved me anyway.

Dozens of actors give the same report in regards to working with the Coen Brothers. They are of one mind and create an easy-going atmosphere on set. They want actors to stick to the text but encourage collaboration. They finish each other’s sentences and share the same nasal, dying-horse laugh.

As a viewer you know you’re in for quality filmmaking when you shell out eight bucks to see their latest film. The editing is a series of uncomforatble and sometimes laugh-out loud, abrupt juxtapositions. They always use stellar actors who give phenomenal performances. Constantly employing Roger Deakins (possibly the best living cinematographer whose work is a lesson in contrasts, so much so that he now posts lighting diagrams for his films online) speaks to their wisdom and supreme aesthetics. Coen Brothers’ films are meant to be seen in the theater and deliciously relived on DVD.

The brothers update forties era noir films in the vein of Raymond Chandler novels, stamping each film with their unique brand of modern sarcasm. Even their hits like “No Country For Old Men”, “Fargo”, “Raising Arizona” and ”The Big Lebowski” are stranger and more entertaining than the quirkiest independent films. Main characters often undertake an existential quest for the meaning of life and their sarcastic tone evades sentimentality. They don’t solve the life-riddle for their protagonist (except for maybe “Fargo” at the conclusion when Marge curls into the arms of her frumpy husband. After her ordeal, the gratitude for her boring, yet solid relationship is palpable). There is no question the Coen Brothers are the best directing duo of all time.

“A Serious Man” shares a few pages from their diary of a Jewish adolescence in late-sixties (early seventies?) Minnesota. I will see every single movie these guys make, but I cannot in good conscience recommend this one to anybody I know except the most obsessive film geeks whom I don’t have to recommend a Coen Brothers film to because, like me, they will see every one. I wont do a plot synopsis because you can read that in many other reviews. Plot can be overrated but this movie may have benefitted from having one.

I will say that the film begins with a scene from a hundred years ago Poland that I couldn’t connect to the rest of the film. If anyone other than Jewish filmmakers made this movie they would be accused of antisemitism. I certainly wasn’t offended, but I’ve never seen such a grotesque characterization of an ethnic group and wouldn’t be surprised if they receive a call from the Anti-Defamation League.

The main character, Larry Gopnik is such a passive, reactionary wimp that it is impossible to care if he makes it through his crisis or not. Unsympathetic and/or reactionary characters often work. Watch “Hud” with Paul Newman, you’ve never seen a bigger asshole and yet the writing, directing and performance force you to actually give a shit. Keanu Reeves’ Neo in “The Matrix” is reactionary throughout the entire film. It isn’t until the final three minutes of that movie that he becomes an active character. But through the mysterious alchemy of filmmaking these characters really work. Larry Gopnik does not.

I was so bored watching “A Serious Man” that I began rooting for Larry’s demise just to keep myself entertained. A few, cerebral half-chuckles escaped me but I was checking my watch halfway through the movie. I love open-endings and many of the Coens’ movies conclude in this fashion creating discussion over coffee afterwards. This ending was so random and abrupt that a guy in the theater actually yelled “what the fuck?” His tone wasn’t that of someone challenged or pondering, it was somebody who wanted his eight-bucks back.

This is one of their films that I wont rent on DVD, I won’t even add it to my Netflix queue unless I want to study cinematography. As with all of their work, “A Serious Man” feels like a studied piece by film school graduates. It is the story of Job from the bible, I get it, but this is the first time a Coen Brothers film felt like it had a ‘message’ (God doesn’t answer our questions) which always guarantees a boring experience. If I’m entertained and later recognize a message within a movie, I’m appreciative and enriched. But I’m starting to see that although these guys consistently churn out excellent filmmaking, they don’t always produce great stories. Many of their films are a series of funny vignettes. Even ardent fans are never going to rave about “The Ladykillers”, “Intolerable Cruelty” or now “A Serious Man” because though great art house fare, these are not great movies. “A Serious Man” is seriously flawed. I could almost hear the Coens’ horsey laugh in the background at this inside joke of a movie. It is true that many artists make art for themselves. I just hope next time the Coens include the rest of us.

Host of “The Late, Late Show” Craig Ferguson’s memoir might seem a little premature. He’s only had a Hollywood career for 15 years or so. But then again, that’s a long career in Hollywood terms. The book is somewhat original as far as the drugs&alcohol/crash&burn/resurrection memoir goes in that he doesn’t really whine or blame anyone. He holds his folks in high-esteem. He likes his ex-wives. He was the product of a two-parent household and the only child who became an addict which helps dispel the myth that addiction is environmentally rooted. There’s a good chance of a genetic component to this thing.

He spends a little too much time on his childhood in Scotland, but I may have felt this way because I had no idea who Craig Ferguson was before reading this book (my sister sent it to me). And that being said, it speaks to the story’s quality that I kept reading. Ferguson found his way onto the comedy circuit performing under the name Bing Hitler and the book is strongest when detailing these early years as a struggling comic in Glasgow and London. Drugs, alcohol and female pursuits dominate his attention and the humor and tragedy of these times makes for a ripe read. Anyone who spends his time making people laugh and drumming in a punk rock band can’t be all bad.

I read the jacket cover so I knew Ferguson eventually found massive commercial success (why else would his memoir deserve publishing) and that makes the dark, struggling years of an artist more interesting than a guy who gave up and became a welder. There’s a humble tone within the pages of this book and it feels sincere. After a teenage trip with his father to meet cousins in America, Ferguson’s firm gaze fixed itself upon the land of the free. His unwavering passion for our country makes you feel grateful to be an American. There is no pandering here, the man worked hard to get where he is and when he bitches, he doesn’t blame ‘the trappings of celebrity’ he simply states that he has always been a malcontent. Three marriages later, you take his word on that one.

His story lacks the biting, completely original writing of Carrie Fisher’s same-genre memoir, but I still laughed. Ferguson writes with a pedestrian, self-deprecating humor whereas Fisher’s book does the same but is overflowing with brilliant lines like ‘instant gratification takes too long’. What “American On Purpose” lacks in brilliance it makes up for in candor. Though it can’t compete with “Postcards From The Edge” that doesn’t mean it isn’t an entertaining read, it just means there won’t be a movie adaptation.

After researching YouTube and the net, I’ve learned that Ferguson has a devout following. His unscripted honest-style monologue developed while he struggled delivering traditional, Carson-ish jokes about current events. Work equated love in his family, and though he traveled to see his Mom often at the end of her battle with cancer, he was on a return flight from Scotland to LA when she passed. At his family’s insistence but with much reluctance he went on the air the night of her death (she would’ve wanted it that way) and decided to risk an unrehearsed approach by eulogizing his Mom. He spoke in a manner that both disarmed and addicted audiences to his monologue which has become the staple of his show ever since.

I watched “The Late, Late Show” once at the end of the 90’s when (beyond arrogant) Craig Kilborn hosted and I couldn’t stand the guy so I never tuned in again. I liked Ferguson and since reading his book I’ve watched the show twice. I’m not going to lie, it isn’t my thing. But I don’t like much mainstream television so that shouldn’t keep you from giving it a try. And if you’re a rabid fan this book is mandatory. If you’re not a fan it’s still a juicy read. You have to admire the fact that the man has refreshed the exhausted format of the talk show genre.

YouTube the show he did regarding Britney Spears and listen to the uncomfortable audience laughs when they aren’t sure if he’s pulling their leg or being sincere. It turns out to be the latter. Imagine that, being honest with the audience. It is an approach that isn’t just revolutionary, it’s punk rock.

“A Memoir Of Moods, Masochism and Murder” stamped across the cover of Stephen Elliott’s new book gives strong indication of where it leads.

We humans are not entirely afraid of the dark. That’s why kids love Halloween. Recently, I watched every episode of Snapped (the stories of women who commit murder) on hulu.com. Couldn’t help it. I still listen to Slayer and Marilyn Manson. Stephen Elliott’s new book is a small candle in the dark.

He weaves a tale that is 2/3rds memoir and 1/3rd reporter covering a Bay Area murder trial in 2007. The telling of his drug abuse and familial alienation would be boring, heavily treaded territory if it weren’t for a twist; his role as a submissive in a variety of S&M relationships with women.

Elliott sounds rational and even-keeled as the narrator of Adderall. And that’s what throws you when the book explores his masochism. He experienced a terrible home life growing up in Chicago during the 80’s and turned to the streets (eventually becoming a ward of the court), music scene and drugs. A fractured relationship with his disabled mother and abusive father manifests itself as pleasure in the grip of leather clad women who wrench his nipples until they bleed.

This revelation isn’t exposed until a few chapters into the book and Elliott is matter-of-fact when detailing his fetishes. But fetish isn’t the right word, it implies sex and his compulsions don’t read the slightest bit sexual. There is no eroticism of the S&M nor apologies for it. And he lacks the desire to change or heal. Elliott simply re-lives his comfort in rejection and abuse. But these dominant women quickly lose interest in his willingness to be humiliated, discarding him like broken hand-cuffs.

You sense regret in respect to his estranged relationship with his father and the chronic drug abuse. But you get the feeling that even if he mended things with his father or if Elliott achieved sobriety he’d still be seeking women to beat the shit out of him. He is compelled to share with the reader his life-affirming need to be dominated by women in the style of a “heavy player” (a person in the S&M scene who endures/administers blood, bruises and welts). And his need parallels the trial he covers.

Elliott is a byproduct of the world he describes and this is what makes the book so compelling. Because even though our negative behaviors may not surface in the same manner, he captures the insanity of modern America’s fascination with its underlying ugliness. And there is no doubt that Elliott is a dexterous writer who peels another layer of the story just as we’re dismissing him as a pathetic weirdo. A hallmark of great writing is the ability to make a reader sympathize with the narrator even though they don’t think they share commonalities.

His strong writing style must be partially credited to his use of the prescription drug Adderall. Doctor approved speed used to treat ADHD and depression, you feel as if you’ve snorted a few lines of the stuff while reading Elliott’s prose. Still, he is engaging and lucid. Political and sporting events pepper the book rooting you in 2007. Like Jack Kerouac’s “On The Road” (written in three weeks under the effects of Beanzadrine, another stimulant) you can pound through this book in a couple of days. But unlike a speed freak’s disconnected ramblings, Elliott’s story is concise and resonant.

You find yourself looking at life through his dilated pupils, until you remember that he will soon be ass-up at the mercy of some dominatrix. And then you try to disconnect from him. But it’s difficult to do. You understand that Elliott’s pursuit of emasculating women will be life-long, there are no behavior-altering Tony Robbins seminars in his future. He is so fucked-up that a murder trial is welcomed relief from Stephen Elliott’s life. We may want to distance ourselves from this protagonist, but The Adderall Diaries remind us that we are all at the mercy of something or someone.

Whatever city you live in has a great local pizza place that you swear to visiting friends and family is “the best pizza ever!” But there is no arguing that (since its inception in Menlo Park, California in 1959 on a $2,500 loan and ‘English knight’ theme) Round Table Pizza is the best chain pizza out there.

There is nothing Americans dread more than taking the bus. If you travel to other countries, you’ll see lawyers and engineers and store owners and every other kind of person taking the bus or subway. Gas in Europe has been five bucks a gallon for decades so the idea of driving yourself to work just seems dumb. The Japanese love to get hammered free from the worry of a DUI ticket. But not here. There are zero rappers rhyming about the ego rush of public transportation. But I wish they did. “I claim the 75 Route to Milwaukie. Phyllis is the dopest driver in North Portland, fool!”  

I love not having to command the steering wheel or hunt for a parking spot (I’ve always detested parallel parking and parking garages. I also hate the sound of a ringing phone, pleated ‘Dockers’, purple beets on salads, the TV show “Lost” and the Jonas Brothers…but I digress).

I relax on the bus. I feel like a millionaire with a personal chauffeur. And nobody cuts you off in traffic when you ride the bus. If they did, you wouldn’t notice because you’d be reading your latest issue of Rolling Stone magazine, listening to Diana Krall or The Isley Brothers or System Of A Down on your iPod, checking out that attractive stranger with the backpack, making your seat available for the old woman with your grandmother’s smile, listening to a foreign language you can’t quite place, watching high school students whisper in each other’s ear or watching the insane janitor mumble to himself. (Anyway, nobody cuts-off a bus in traffic. It would be like a trout cutting off a whale. Even the HumVee driven by the angry man with the horribly small penis submits to a bus.)

When taking the bus, you just walk out your front door. That’s it, you’re done. You don’t have to heighten your skills in regards to spatial relationships. Beyond route selection you don’t have to navigate. You don’t warm your car’s engine, you don’t mentally struggle to recall if your insurance has lapsed or if you need gas. You just walk three or four blocks (sometimes less), hang-out on a corner and read your newspaper or call a friend on your cell phone. Sometimes you study the courting rituals of squirrels. Just when you smile at the breeze against your cheek and the meditative rhythm of the neighborhood drops your heart-rate, you hear those air brakes and your eyes rise as you dig into your pocket for fare.

You either get the friendly/helpful bus driver or a guy with a Basset-hound’s droop to his bloodshot eyes, someone whose resignation is way beyond the help of your optimism. The other negatives can be unruly teenagers or the socially uncomfortable twitches and smells of the destitute. The rare argument occurs between passengers but this is not the norm, I’ve only heard it happening once. Conversely, in my own truck, I’m not proud to say that I’ve experienced road rage so intense that I tried to fight a tailgater at the shoulder of the 101 freeway.

So please, put away your fears of rape and status and have an adventure within your city limits. Take a break and let someone else control the wheel. Feel good about reducing your carbon footprint and maybe even make a new friend. Liberation is only a few steps from home.

Developed from English rugby, a primitive hybrid was played by the young men of Harvard on the Boston Common every Monday (known as “Bloody Monday”) gaining popularity within the college system by 1860. After the Civil War, colleges across the nation created teams with Princeton establishing a crude version of rules. In 1867 the football was patented. Afterwards, Walter Camp, the coach at Yale invented the 110-yard field length, the eleven man team size and a series of three downs to move the ball five yards. By 1912 four downs were allowed to move the ball ten yards.

After struggle and spirited debate the National Football League arose in 1921. Professional teams! Imagine the shock of the first college player who bypassed his accounting degree only to accept a higher paycheck playing his beloved ‘football’ for half the year. That must’ve been the most elated cashing of five hundred dollars.

Last weekend I became a University of Oregon “Ducks” fan when my friend Ryan drove me down to Eugene to witness their stomping of the Utah State “Utes” (what exactly is a Ute? Ok, I just read it was a tribe of Indians in the Arizona/Utah region. Makes sense. But if you think it lame to be labelled an Oregon ‘Duck’ how about claiming ‘Ute’? Also, I cannot help but point out that the Utes are from Utah the state that invented Mormonism. Within this religion was a clause called “The Mark Of Cain” that was enforced until 1978. This “mark” was attributed to skin color, i.e. anyone with African descent was somehow linked to the biblical story of Cain and Abel; Cain supposedly being the world’s first murderer. The result: black people were denied priesthood within the LDS church because of their “Mark Of Cain” until the 70’s when the US government started knocking on the door and they suddenly heard a new voice from God telling them to reverse their position before court proceedings against the church began. The current quarterback for Utah State is an African-American man by the name of Terrance Cain).

There is no excitement in sports like the live football game. A running team is often less exciting than a passing team but the thunder within Autzen stadium, the band, the cheerleaders, the jumbo-tron screen, and the contagious passion of the green and yellow fans makes the sport of badminton pale in comparison.

Ryan asked if I’d like to wear a Ducks poncho but I wanted to wear neutral black and decide how I felt about the team. I’d always liked Notre Dame because they (”The Fighting Irish”) spawned Joe Montana and “Rudy” is one of my favorite movies. But I hadn’t followed the team much beyond the Lou Holtz era and stopped watching football altogether the past few seasons for no reason I can identify.

I was high-fiving the stranger next to me within ten minutes of entering the Nike-funded stadium. By the third quarter my throat was hoarse screaming support for the Ducks. Rain poured down as their back-to-back turnovers broke my heart and their ten point victory had me hugging Ryan and searching for a Ducks cap to purchase. The sport may have caught on after the American Civil War but now I anticipate Oregon’s Civil War game between the University of Oregon Ducks and the Oregon State Beavers.

The following day I completed my Sunday chores early so I could watch my San Francisco 49ers play the Seattle Seahawks at 1 pm. I sat with chips and a soda recalling Niners’ memories from my life. “The Throw” from Joe Montana and “The Catch” received by Dwight Clark at the buzzer of the 1981 NFC Championship game watched with Scott Schirle and his parents in their family room. The last drive of the ‘89 Superbowl victory over Cincinnati watched within a room full of Bengals fans where Super Joe (49ers down by 3) started a 92 yard drive with 3:20 seconds on the clock only to deliver the winning pass to John Taylor with 34 seconds remaining (an almost mystically calm Montana, before calling that first play of the winning drive, from the huddle casually pointed out to his teammates that John Candy was standing on the sidelines).

But most of all it is the weather change that reminds me of football. I am tired of the sun by Autumn and appreciate the crisp air and dry brown leaves. I anticipate my first bite of Round Table pizza as rain assaults the window and the announcer screams from the television. I remember throwing a football in the street at half-time with my father. I recall a muddy Doyle Park field where my friends and I spent our teenage Sundays playing back-to-back games for hours as grey skies slowly changed afternoon to night and we walked home drenched, absorbing the bummer of school on Monday.

I went to a very ‘Este-like’ seminar when I was twenty four years-old held at The Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco. At that time I worked as a teacher of after-school programs (soccer/hockey/cartooning/calligraphy) at Sonoma Country Day School and they paid for me to attend the seminar. As with many new experiences I thought, “what the hell, I’ll try it”.

I caught-on very quickly that the seminar was an LSD conversation for people who’d never taken the drug or for those who hadn’t tripped in decades. Much of the weekend was hysterical hogwash. But a couple of productive things materialized.

One was a perspective nobody had ever articulated to me. There’s things we know we know (for me it’s hacky-sack, fishing Deer Creek, film history, BBQing). Then there’s things we know we don’t know (I am definitely not the guy to answer your quantum physics questions).

But the most exciting thing about staying alive, even when we’re exhausted by the chore, the pearl in the oyster is WHAT WE DON’T KNOW THAT WE DON’T KNOW: that acquaintance from fifth grade who finds you online and the strongest friendship of your life develops, your favorite steakhouse has closed and you escape the rain into an Indian restaurant and wind-up having the best meal ever, that jazz concert you reluctantly attend with your sister only to passionately fill your iPod with the trumpet of Wynton Marsalis afterwards.

When my brother-in-law handed me his copy of “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace he wore a cunning smirk. He passed me the book and my hand dropped a few inches from the sheer weight (pounds not profoundness) of the 1,079 page novel. Before I could speak he cut me off. “You’re gonna love it.”

I did love the book and was intimidated by it. The prose is beyond original. Wallace had the ability to completely inhabit characters from diverse backgrounds allowing you to totally understand their perspective as if their thoughts were your own. I laughed out loud. I cringed. I cried. I was frustrated by the footnotes but intent on reading each one. I threw the book across the room three or four times but found myself soon picking it up, taping the torn pages. 

I’m sure I’m not the only writer to envy his gift. I relate to Wallace the way I was told I was supposed to relate to Sallinger. He is my generation’s voice. I began reading his articles for Harper’s. I bought ‘Broom Of The System’ and I am currently reading ‘Brief Interviews With Hideous Men’. Yesterday, I wrote e-mails to six friends with a link to David Lipsky’s Rolling Stone article about Wallace. It is one of the best magazine articles I’ve ever read and anything else I could hope to write about the man, Lipsky does better.

David Foster Wallace hung himself in his Pomona, CA garage on September 12th, 2008. After a suicide people often chastise the person in order to distance themselves from the possibility of ever making the same decision. ‘How selfish’ ‘what about his family’ ‘what a pussy’ etcetera, etcetera.

But if you’ve ever found yourself stressed-out, overwhelmed, hung-over, lovesick or just plain angry, can you imagine these emotions combined 24 hours a day? Depression leaving you chemically unable to turn-off this radio static, the dial permenantly stuck halfway between stations.  

Most of us don’t care to slow down and try understanding the emotional experiences of others. Judgement is such an easier short-cut. Homeless loser-get a job! I guarantee Tom Cruise understands Brooke Shields’ postpartum struggle as much as I understand the joys of Scientology.

Maybe Wallace’s ability to withstand his electric war of cross-firing mental synapses for 46 long years was nothing short of heroic. I am sticking around to experience what I don’t know that I don’t know because even if I never discover the pearl, I fucking love oysters.