Levon Helm, singer and drummer for the Band, died on April 19th in New York of throat cancer. He was 71.
...Born May 26, 1940 in Arkansas, Helm was literally a witness to the birth of rock & roll; as a teenager, he saw Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis in concert and was inspired to play drums after seeing Lewis' drummer, Jimmy Van Eaton. (Helm went on to play mandolin and other stringed instruments as well). In 1960, Helm joined the backup band of rockabilly wildman Ronnie Hawkins – a group that would eventually include Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, Rick Danko and Garth Hudson, all future members of the Band.The musicians broke from Hawkins to form their own group – their names included the Crackers and Levon and the Hawks – but it was their association with Bob Dylan that cemented their reputation. After Dylan saw the group in a club (either in Canada or New Jersey, depending on the source), he invited Helm and guitarist Robertson to join his electric band...Robertson and Helm were in Dylan's electric band for his controversial, frequently booed show at New York's Forest Hills Tennis Stadium. Afterward, various members of the Band played on Dylan's Blonde on Blonde and toured with him in 1966. (Helm left temporary in 1965, tired of the ongoing hostility from Dylan's folk fans.)
Recuperating in Woodstock after his 1966 motorcycle accident, Dylan again hooked up with the band that would soon be the Band. Before Helm rejoined them, they recorded the landmark Basement Tapes, and the Band's crackling, homespun take on American roots music began to take shape. Rechristening themselves the Band, they signed to Capitol Records and released two classic albums, Music From Big Pink (1968) and The Band (1969). Although Robertson was the Band's principal songwriter, it was Helm's beautifully gruff and ornery voice that brought the Canadian Robertson's mythic Americana songs to life. He was also one of rock's earliest singing drummers.
...The Band continued for a while after Manuel's suicide by hanging in 1986, but Danko's death in 1999 of heart failure ended the Band once and for all. By then, Helm was dealing with throat cancer. After his recovery, he began holding intimate concerts in his combination barn and studio in Woodstock, called the "Midnight Ramble," in part to pay his medical bills. The low-key, woodsy performances became must-see shows and attracted a rock who's who; Elvis Costello, Natalie Merchant, the Grateful Dead's Phil Lesh and Donald Fagen were among the many who joined Helm and his band. The Ramble shows led to two acclaimed Helm solo albums – 2007's Dirt Farmer, which won a Grammy in the Best Traditional Folk category, and 2009's Electric Dirt, which resulted in a Grammy for Best Americana album. "This go-round has been a lot more fun," Helm told Rolling Stone in 2009. "Now I know I've got enough voice to do it."
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Levon Gone
A great has gone. From Rolling Stone:
I was lucky enough to attend a Midnight Ramble in January last year thanks to my friend and Ramble saxophonist, Erik Lawrence. It was a magical night, the beautiful interior of the barn/studio a warm and cozy respite from the freezing winter air outside. By tradition, attendees brought food to share in the downstairs area at intermission, in keeping with the spirit of the whole event.
I had a standing position behind the band, looking down at my buddy and across at Levon. When he entered, the band assembled and playing him in, with his jacket over his shoulders, long and gaunt and smiling ear-to-ear, the audience members (all ages, some from other parts of the world) shook his hand, thanked him, loved him.
As my father used to say, "Last of the good guys." And a hell of a drummer as well.
Rest in Peace, Levon Helm.
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
This is Huge. This is a Big Deal.
This country's most populous state, my adopted home, is free at last. And I don't think I can top Taryn Southern's description of how I think most Californians feel:
By the way, I have no idea who Taryn is, but she came up in a YouTube video search and has a nice, slightly confessional YouTube Channel. But that's how the Internet works.
You can't ban marriage between two people because of gender. True love cannot be property of the state (unless you're married to Newt Gingrich). Not in the Internet Age, and you can't defund Planned Parenthood or try to censor usage.
Like it says in our song, Let Freedom Ring.
Onto the Supremes?
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Betty
Per my father's maxim that you have to be at least slightly insane to want to be President of the United States of America, Gerald Ford may be the rare case of a "not insane" President. Maybe not considered the smartest and certainly not the most successful and actually getting elected, he was essentially appointed President-in-waiting by Richard Nixon, on the verge of impeachment and, ultimately, resignation. One of the finest characteristics of President Ford was, of course, his wife Betty Ford, my kind of Republican, which is to say, smart and sensible and not insane. She passed away a little over a day ago at age 93.
There are three reasons I admired Ms. Ford in particular, two of which are fairly well known. One is how she opened up regarding the breast cancer she suffered while First Lady, the radical mastectomy and chemotherapy, the first time I can recall a public figure sharing such a common condition with the public. This led to a huge influx in women going to get tested themselves.
Second, she revealed her own alcoholism and pill addiction, leading to founding the Betty Ford Center in Palm Springs. Again, her own private battle, after having gone public, led to a de-stigmatization of what had historically been something hidden, secret, shameful.
Lastly, or perhaps first, there was the Ford's White House bed. It was a something of a deal at the time that this was a Presidential couple that actually slept together, rather than the twin beds (separate bedrooms?) of Richard and Pat Nixon, possibly going back further than that as well. The Fords had a lot of kids, who were smart and sometimes a little too outspoken themselves, but they sure looked like they were still in love. That queen-sized bed they brought into the White House was noted by my parents, and while I don't think they voted for Gerald Ford in the ensuing election (his pardon of Richard Nixon sealed his own fate), they approved. Nobody really hated Jerry Ford.
And everybody admired Betty.
There are three reasons I admired Ms. Ford in particular, two of which are fairly well known. One is how she opened up regarding the breast cancer she suffered while First Lady, the radical mastectomy and chemotherapy, the first time I can recall a public figure sharing such a common condition with the public. This led to a huge influx in women going to get tested themselves.
Second, she revealed her own alcoholism and pill addiction, leading to founding the Betty Ford Center in Palm Springs. Again, her own private battle, after having gone public, led to a de-stigmatization of what had historically been something hidden, secret, shameful.
Lastly, or perhaps first, there was the Ford's White House bed. It was a something of a deal at the time that this was a Presidential couple that actually slept together, rather than the twin beds (separate bedrooms?) of Richard and Pat Nixon, possibly going back further than that as well. The Fords had a lot of kids, who were smart and sometimes a little too outspoken themselves, but they sure looked like they were still in love. That queen-sized bed they brought into the White House was noted by my parents, and while I don't think they voted for Gerald Ford in the ensuing election (his pardon of Richard Nixon sealed his own fate), they approved. Nobody really hated Jerry Ford.
And everybody admired Betty.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Just Kids
With the departure of Haley Reinhart as my favorite #3 finisher, a category that includes Casey James and Melissa Doolittle, I have one less show to watch next week, as I'll be skipping the all-country, youngest ever (16 and 17) American Idol finals. I'll definitely watch the grand finale episode, not because I care who wins anymore, but to see some of the great diverse talent from this season, paired up with established stars, usually with at least one legend thrown in as the climax. Maybe Randy Travis with the country kids?
Nothing against Scotty McCreery or Lauren Alaina who seem like fine young people, both very talented, with Scotty poised to be the male Carrie Underwood when he wins and starts selling a kazillion records and downloads, but it's not my genre unless in the Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Allison Kraus, even Willie Nelson vein. And in its quest for audience, Idol has become a kids show. With alternatives like X Factor and The Voice, I wonder if the future Casey Abrams and Haley Reinharts will choose to take their quirky, professional, potentially brilliant career starts elsewhere.
The iTunes studio track of Haley's Led Zep cover from last night, "What Is and What Should Never Be," is awesome. It misses the smouldering blues lead guitar of her father's from the live show, but makes up for it in production value, listenability, and lack of tumble in the middle. So may of her tracks have been great, rotation ready -- "Benny and the Jets," "Rolling in the Deep," "You and I," "House of the Rising Sun," even "Blue" -- but this one may be the best. What a way to go out. I'm just bummed not to get those last three Haley Reinhart competition performances next week.
Here's her sing-out. "Benny" all the way, the song that first separated her, this awkward sexy yodeling girl who was supposed to be cannon fodder, from the rest of the pack:
Here's my favorite take on the above, from the tvline.com blogpost comments:
Gotta think the Idol factory might have preferred Scotty vs. Haley. Ratings will have to go down next week as large blue state percentages drop off. And with the top two headliners be in country on the tour, won't that be something of a deterrent to ticket sales?
I do blame the judges song choice for Haley -- the Alanis Morissette song was a bad choice eight ways to Sunday, including being past it's expiration date Crystal and Alanis duetted it on the final last year), requiring editing for TV and still containing "is she perverted like me" to turn off mothers, has a general bitchy feel that seems designed to confirm what the Haley haters fantasize about her personality, not a great "singing" song with a low verse that's not great for Haley, lots of words to learn quickly when you lose a couple days for homecoming week and have 3 rather than 1 or even 2 songs to do, and they put it at the end of the show rather than earlier, so Haley could have ended on the Led Zeppelin moment.
But I truly believe, in the grand post-Idol scheme:
Haley FTW.
Nothing against Scotty McCreery or Lauren Alaina who seem like fine young people, both very talented, with Scotty poised to be the male Carrie Underwood when he wins and starts selling a kazillion records and downloads, but it's not my genre unless in the Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Allison Kraus, even Willie Nelson vein. And in its quest for audience, Idol has become a kids show. With alternatives like X Factor and The Voice, I wonder if the future Casey Abrams and Haley Reinharts will choose to take their quirky, professional, potentially brilliant career starts elsewhere.
The iTunes studio track of Haley's Led Zep cover from last night, "What Is and What Should Never Be," is awesome. It misses the smouldering blues lead guitar of her father's from the live show, but makes up for it in production value, listenability, and lack of tumble in the middle. So may of her tracks have been great, rotation ready -- "Benny and the Jets," "Rolling in the Deep," "You and I," "House of the Rising Sun," even "Blue" -- but this one may be the best. What a way to go out. I'm just bummed not to get those last three Haley Reinhart competition performances next week.
Here's her sing-out. "Benny" all the way, the song that first separated her, this awkward sexy yodeling girl who was supposed to be cannon fodder, from the rest of the pack:
Here's my favorite take on the above, from the tvline.com blogpost comments:
Two kids trapped in the grown-up world of network television meets music business. No more adults left to watch on the show, they're on their own.I usually get a feeling after the show about how the contestants are reacting. Just from the way Haley was singing to the others in the audience who went before her, it truly seemed to me that she was hanging with the cool kids while the pristine prom king and queen were anchored to the stage having to hold court, unable to join the party. I’ll bet none of them are surprised who the two finalists turned out to be. Haley was the last of the artists, and she made it further than all the others in what has always been a predestined finale. The fact that she came so far from where she started takes some of the sting out.
Comment by agrimesy – May 19, 2011 09:11 PM PDT
Gotta think the Idol factory might have preferred Scotty vs. Haley. Ratings will have to go down next week as large blue state percentages drop off. And with the top two headliners be in country on the tour, won't that be something of a deterrent to ticket sales?
I do blame the judges song choice for Haley -- the Alanis Morissette song was a bad choice eight ways to Sunday, including being past it's expiration date Crystal and Alanis duetted it on the final last year), requiring editing for TV and still containing "is she perverted like me" to turn off mothers, has a general bitchy feel that seems designed to confirm what the Haley haters fantasize about her personality, not a great "singing" song with a low verse that's not great for Haley, lots of words to learn quickly when you lose a couple days for homecoming week and have 3 rather than 1 or even 2 songs to do, and they put it at the end of the show rather than earlier, so Haley could have ended on the Led Zeppelin moment.
But I truly believe, in the grand post-Idol scheme:
Haley FTW.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Froth of the Damned
It's possible my feelings will change as the year tails out, but I'm thinking that Woody's Allen's unlikely new film, Vicky Christina Barcelona, is my favorite moviegoing experience so far this year. Sure, The Dark Knight is excellent spectacle, especially in IMAX. And I may have laughed harder throughout Tropic Thunder or Forgetting Sarah Marshall. But Allen has made his best film since, well, I'll call back to 1989's Crimes & Misdemeanors. And this one is shot better.
What touched me about this new Allen opus is how well it captures that particular bohemian freedom and experimentation of youth, that time of openness and frothy decisions which you don't think will have the critical impact on your life that maybe they do. Rebecca Hall (excellent in The Prestige but the protagonist here) and Scarlett Johansson (best performance to date?) play Vicky and Christina, two friends with very different views of love, who are on that one last trip together to Barcelona, where they meet a reknown painter paid by the incredibly appealing Javier Bardem and, eventually, his psychotic ex-wife (Penelope Cruz). The rondelay of seduction leads to rather unexpected places, and ultimately a comic rondelay of the damned, although the sureness of touch makes it seem almost soft-pedaled, even as the final image takes our beautiful co-leads down.
During the first third of the movie, the most effervescent section, we're watching a movie about youth that could almost be created by a young filmmaker. It's the the twists in the second and third act that reveal the long view of a novelist, not condemning as an angry young director might, but certainly putting the knife in on the expressed theme that "only unfulfilled love can be romantic."
Along the way, with 60 year-old Spanish cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe, Allen seems to rediscover the camera, even more profoundly than he did with another highly successful recent picture of his, Match Point. Since the tragedy this time is more Chekhov than Dreiser, the feeling is a hell of a lot lighter, but the shots are sumptuous and feel like discovery, whether the tourist trip to the Catalan world or the beauty of the young starlets in close-up.
Whatever the pleasures of the other movies listed above and the shared competence with Allen's latest, this is the one that feels the most like real people undergoing real character change, inasmuch as attitude changes while character remains constant. This is the movie breathing fully of life and offering the most flesh-and-blood experience in the most entertaining way, with lots of laughter but something tho take home and think about.
And, as a little bit of a reality check for those (like me) who sometimes deride auteur Allen for his flops, let it be noted that this is Woody Allen's 43rd directing effort. That kind of directorial productivity only happened back in the days of the studio factories, and now he's doing each one basically as an annual independent film. When all is said and done, considering his 100% creative control, it is a career unparalleled in the history of moviemaking.
And #44 is on the way.
What touched me about this new Allen opus is how well it captures that particular bohemian freedom and experimentation of youth, that time of openness and frothy decisions which you don't think will have the critical impact on your life that maybe they do. Rebecca Hall (excellent in The Prestige but the protagonist here) and Scarlett Johansson (best performance to date?) play Vicky and Christina, two friends with very different views of love, who are on that one last trip together to Barcelona, where they meet a reknown painter paid by the incredibly appealing Javier Bardem and, eventually, his psychotic ex-wife (Penelope Cruz). The rondelay of seduction leads to rather unexpected places, and ultimately a comic rondelay of the damned, although the sureness of touch makes it seem almost soft-pedaled, even as the final image takes our beautiful co-leads down.
During the first third of the movie, the most effervescent section, we're watching a movie about youth that could almost be created by a young filmmaker. It's the the twists in the second and third act that reveal the long view of a novelist, not condemning as an angry young director might, but certainly putting the knife in on the expressed theme that "only unfulfilled love can be romantic."
Along the way, with 60 year-old Spanish cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe, Allen seems to rediscover the camera, even more profoundly than he did with another highly successful recent picture of his, Match Point. Since the tragedy this time is more Chekhov than Dreiser, the feeling is a hell of a lot lighter, but the shots are sumptuous and feel like discovery, whether the tourist trip to the Catalan world or the beauty of the young starlets in close-up.
Whatever the pleasures of the other movies listed above and the shared competence with Allen's latest, this is the one that feels the most like real people undergoing real character change, inasmuch as attitude changes while character remains constant. This is the movie breathing fully of life and offering the most flesh-and-blood experience in the most entertaining way, with lots of laughter but something tho take home and think about.
And, as a little bit of a reality check for those (like me) who sometimes deride auteur Allen for his flops, let it be noted that this is Woody Allen's 43rd directing effort. That kind of directorial productivity only happened back in the days of the studio factories, and now he's doing each one basically as an annual independent film. When all is said and done, considering his 100% creative control, it is a career unparalleled in the history of moviemaking.
And #44 is on the way.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Freedom
As of today, there's no going back in California:
It makes me proud to be in a state that leads the nation on reducing carbon emissions, creating high-tech business and science opportunities, and is near the front on this latest breakthrough in civil rights.
Props to San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom for pushing the issue several years ago when he ordered the city to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples, leading to the historic California Supreme Court decision. The same longtime couple that he chose to get the first one then got it this time:
Amen, sisters.
In Los Angeles County, longtime partners Diane Olson and Robin Tyler were the first and only same-sex couple to obtain a license this evening. Together 15 years, Olson and Tyler were the original plaintiffs in the 2004 California lawsuit challenging the ban on gay marriage as unconstitutional. The couple were chosen to receive the county's first license "in recognition of their unique role in the court's decision," said acting Los Angeles County Registrar-Recorder Dean Logan.
So after eight years of showing up at the Beverly Hills courthouse each Valentine's Day and being repeatedly denied a marriage license, they returned this afternoon as conquering heroines -- with friends, their high-profile lawyer Gloria Allred and a mass of media in tow...
...At the county clerk's window, as Olson's and Tyler's marriage license was prepared, the full measure of the moment hit. "We've never gotten this far before," Tyler said.
"Well, you have, today," the clerk said.
It makes me proud to be in a state that leads the nation on reducing carbon emissions, creating high-tech business and science opportunities, and is near the front on this latest breakthrough in civil rights.
Props to San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom for pushing the issue several years ago when he ordered the city to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples, leading to the historic California Supreme Court decision. The same longtime couple that he chose to get the first one then got it this time:
Lyon, 83, and Martin, 87, were the first couple married four years ago when Newsom told the county clerk's office to start offering marriage certificates to same-sex couples. Eventually more than 4,000 same-sex couples were married in San Francisco that year, but those unions were later nullified by the court. Today, the couple, and dozens of others, had their first chance to make their unions truly legal...
...Several feet away sat a couple on vacation from Ireland who happened to stumble on the historic event. Christine Yearsley said she planned to stay at City Hall the rest of the afternoon to witness as much as she could."This gentleman just told me there are two elderly ladies who are getting married today after being together for 50 years," she said. "They're obviously committed! I think it's terrific. They're an example for heterosexuals, I think."
Amen, sisters.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Surrender
I've been moved twice in the past 24 hours by women on TV surrendering to something larger than themselves and, in doing so, achieving an evident state of grace. Both women are closely associated with the word "President."
Last night's episode of Battlestar Gallactica (SPOILERS COMING FAST) had the most moving ending to any episode I've seen, and there have been some very powerful ones. President Laura Roslin, cancer-stricken but on a life-or-death mission for all of humanity, has visions of her own death that lead her to finally, in the last minute of the episode, admit her love for Admiral Bill Adama.
While that may sound all space opera on the surface, Roslin and Adama are played by master thespians Mary McDonnell and Edward James Olmos. Thrown together then the Cylons wiped out all but 40,000 human beings in the known universe, they started out fighting for governance over the remaining humanity, appeared to become intimate sometime last season (as Adama became able to admit to Roslin's wisdom), and seemed to fracture recently as Roslin's cancer drove her to a coldness about her decisions, a lack of regard for anything but her own rightness.
So McDonnell gave a shattering performance last night, culminating with those three most dangerous words to say in a movie or TV show, "I love you." And it was Adama's response that brought it home: "It's about time." Considering everything they're up against, the stakes and the cost, it was quite the rewarding moment for show followers. Roslin gives herself over to the truth, and it wouldn't be surprising if the writers have her cancer going into remission.
Then today another woman, who did not achieve the Presidency this go-round but appears to have taken Third place (actually Second since she out polled McCain in the Primaries) gives what is easily the best speech of her career, as she surrenders to Barack Obama, as I did the night he won Iowa in January.
While I've already heard the narcissism charge leveled at this speech, I agree with Matthew Yglesias that:
What I think we saw as well, and which could not have been possible Tuesday night, or before her private meeting with Senator Obama, was that same post-acceptance rejuvenation that Al Gore started glowing with during his concession speech in 2000. She's free to take non-consultant risks now (like they did such a great job for her), free to seek her bliss elsewhere (won't be VP), free to support a guy she actually seems to like off-trail. She already looks like a new woman, to me much more appealing, in photos like this.
At a certain point, whether her supporters come aboard or not is their problem. Some may stay home, a smattering may vote McCain out of spite or white, but I honestly think the guy below has what it takes to win this election:
Towards the end, when he's telling the staff about the burden on them to not let down all the Americans now looking to them for help, for a better deal at such a dark time, that's when his gravitas comes through.
And I don't think McCain's comes close.
Last night's episode of Battlestar Gallactica (SPOILERS COMING FAST) had the most moving ending to any episode I've seen, and there have been some very powerful ones. President Laura Roslin, cancer-stricken but on a life-or-death mission for all of humanity, has visions of her own death that lead her to finally, in the last minute of the episode, admit her love for Admiral Bill Adama.
While that may sound all space opera on the surface, Roslin and Adama are played by master thespians Mary McDonnell and Edward James Olmos. Thrown together then the Cylons wiped out all but 40,000 human beings in the known universe, they started out fighting for governance over the remaining humanity, appeared to become intimate sometime last season (as Adama became able to admit to Roslin's wisdom), and seemed to fracture recently as Roslin's cancer drove her to a coldness about her decisions, a lack of regard for anything but her own rightness.
So McDonnell gave a shattering performance last night, culminating with those three most dangerous words to say in a movie or TV show, "I love you." And it was Adama's response that brought it home: "It's about time." Considering everything they're up against, the stakes and the cost, it was quite the rewarding moment for show followers. Roslin gives herself over to the truth, and it wouldn't be surprising if the writers have her cancer going into remission.
Then today another woman, who did not achieve the Presidency this go-round but appears to have taken Third place (actually Second since she out polled McCain in the Primaries) gives what is easily the best speech of her career, as she surrenders to Barack Obama, as I did the night he won Iowa in January.
While I've already heard the narcissism charge leveled at this speech, I agree with Matthew Yglesias that:
Far from an egocentric outburst, the talking about herself and her supporters made the speech the great speech that it was and helped a lot, I think, to break down the mutual barriers of bitterness that had built up. Something nominally more focused on Obama might well have come off as half-hearted. What she delivered was perfectly sincere and utterly in keeping with the main themes of her campaign, but also led to the desired conclusion. I think it was very skillfully put together.And the visuals were the best -- entirely epic -- of her campaign.
What I think we saw as well, and which could not have been possible Tuesday night, or before her private meeting with Senator Obama, was that same post-acceptance rejuvenation that Al Gore started glowing with during his concession speech in 2000. She's free to take non-consultant risks now (like they did such a great job for her), free to seek her bliss elsewhere (won't be VP), free to support a guy she actually seems to like off-trail. She already looks like a new woman, to me much more appealing, in photos like this.
At a certain point, whether her supporters come aboard or not is their problem. Some may stay home, a smattering may vote McCain out of spite or white, but I honestly think the guy below has what it takes to win this election:
Towards the end, when he's telling the staff about the burden on them to not let down all the Americans now looking to them for help, for a better deal at such a dark time, that's when his gravitas comes through.
And I don't think McCain's comes close.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Friend
I was prepared to write about something else tonight, maybe Hillary Clinton's latest crime against her party, maybe John McCain's peevish outburst to a reporter, maybe Barack Obama's positive efforts to keep the debate real rather than manufactured against all sides firing in on him.
Instead, I am sad to report, it's to be a brief eulogy for a livelong friend, or as long as four whole decades, 40 years, will get you. My dear buddy, my fellow droog, Mark Sander, died way too young late today, and if you have a few moments I'll tell you about him.
I grew up in a small town bedroom community for the New York State Capital, Albany, called Delmar. When I was eight years old our family moved from one street on Delmar to another, where my folks had a house built. One afternoon after school I biked from our house to our future home, where the basement had been dug but the foundation not yet laid.
It was an independent moment, the type of thing I'd be loathe to let my current eight year-old do on his own. As I walked my bike around the excavation, the light starting to fade, I ran into another boy, one year older than me, wearing glasses like me, standing with his arms crossed, imperial.
Feeling cheery and excited about the impending neighborhood change, I went up to the boy and said, "I'm moving here. This is going to be my house."
To which he replied, in a fool-suffering tone I'd come to love over the many years ahead, "I know!"
Mark had the same name as me, although over time we referred to each other as "Mo" and eventually he retained rights to that nickname amongst our close "droog" friends and I took on the distinction of "Moses". Mo lived two doors away, with our good buddy, Andrew, who became known as "Crunch", living between us. We talked politics in those days -- Crunch being the Buckley-esque Republican conservative flanked by two Democratic liberals. Although both of those guys were a year ahead of me in school, they were my gang, making sure I took up the rarely played contra alto clarinet in order to advance to the upper level band, grooming me to follow their lead in model congress, procuring our first booze together.
Over the years Mo continued to provide friendship and support. When I moved to NYC after college it was his couch I slept on, in his tiny, shared Greenwich Village tenement, until I found a place. He helped me get work, in a Wall Street executive (broker) search firm and then at Princeton Review, where I both tutored and wrote the company's first LSAT manual. He was instrumental in putting together the annual summer weekend gathering of the ten droogs, starting in our twenties and continuing through today. And he both read and contributed comments to this very blog.
Mo was born with certain physical conditions that gave him a stilted (imperial?) stride as a kid. His first nickname was penguin, or "pengy", but he took it in the best possible way, by putting up a huge poster of hundreds of penguins on an ice floe. But this was the seed of his later physical ailments including sciatic problems and ultimately a pacemaker, difficulty walking even with a cane, and several alarming hospital stints over the past year.
For somebody with such heart trouble he had the largest heart of all, leaving behind a devoted wife and three irresistible young daughters, scores or devoted graduates of his Advantage Testing prep service in Boston, and a network of devoted friends stretching from Delmar to Princeton to New York to Boston and even to here in Santa Monica.
There was no one I enjoyed talking to more about politics, no one I enjoyed chortling with more about the sometimes violent absurdities of life, no one who was ever more loyal or trustworthy, no one with a better attitude towards his own ailments.
Maybe it's still too early or maybe I'll never be able to put the right words one after the other to describe Mark properly. But if you've been lucky enough to have a similar friend in your life, then maybe you understand.
The grieving will take awhile, I'm already missing him achingly, but it's never too early to celebrate such a man, such a life.
Here's to you, Mo. Let's ride that long lonesome train together tonight.
Instead, I am sad to report, it's to be a brief eulogy for a livelong friend, or as long as four whole decades, 40 years, will get you. My dear buddy, my fellow droog, Mark Sander, died way too young late today, and if you have a few moments I'll tell you about him.
I grew up in a small town bedroom community for the New York State Capital, Albany, called Delmar. When I was eight years old our family moved from one street on Delmar to another, where my folks had a house built. One afternoon after school I biked from our house to our future home, where the basement had been dug but the foundation not yet laid.
It was an independent moment, the type of thing I'd be loathe to let my current eight year-old do on his own. As I walked my bike around the excavation, the light starting to fade, I ran into another boy, one year older than me, wearing glasses like me, standing with his arms crossed, imperial.
Feeling cheery and excited about the impending neighborhood change, I went up to the boy and said, "I'm moving here. This is going to be my house."
To which he replied, in a fool-suffering tone I'd come to love over the many years ahead, "I know!"
Mark had the same name as me, although over time we referred to each other as "Mo" and eventually he retained rights to that nickname amongst our close "droog" friends and I took on the distinction of "Moses". Mo lived two doors away, with our good buddy, Andrew, who became known as "Crunch", living between us. We talked politics in those days -- Crunch being the Buckley-esque Republican conservative flanked by two Democratic liberals. Although both of those guys were a year ahead of me in school, they were my gang, making sure I took up the rarely played contra alto clarinet in order to advance to the upper level band, grooming me to follow their lead in model congress, procuring our first booze together.
Over the years Mo continued to provide friendship and support. When I moved to NYC after college it was his couch I slept on, in his tiny, shared Greenwich Village tenement, until I found a place. He helped me get work, in a Wall Street executive (broker) search firm and then at Princeton Review, where I both tutored and wrote the company's first LSAT manual. He was instrumental in putting together the annual summer weekend gathering of the ten droogs, starting in our twenties and continuing through today. And he both read and contributed comments to this very blog.
Mo was born with certain physical conditions that gave him a stilted (imperial?) stride as a kid. His first nickname was penguin, or "pengy", but he took it in the best possible way, by putting up a huge poster of hundreds of penguins on an ice floe. But this was the seed of his later physical ailments including sciatic problems and ultimately a pacemaker, difficulty walking even with a cane, and several alarming hospital stints over the past year.
For somebody with such heart trouble he had the largest heart of all, leaving behind a devoted wife and three irresistible young daughters, scores or devoted graduates of his Advantage Testing prep service in Boston, and a network of devoted friends stretching from Delmar to Princeton to New York to Boston and even to here in Santa Monica.
There was no one I enjoyed talking to more about politics, no one I enjoyed chortling with more about the sometimes violent absurdities of life, no one who was ever more loyal or trustworthy, no one with a better attitude towards his own ailments.
Maybe it's still too early or maybe I'll never be able to put the right words one after the other to describe Mark properly. But if you've been lucky enough to have a similar friend in your life, then maybe you understand.
The grieving will take awhile, I'm already missing him achingly, but it's never too early to celebrate such a man, such a life.
Here's to you, Mo. Let's ride that long lonesome train together tonight.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Hiccup
For those highly-valued, regular readers of Nettertainment, I offer an apology for not posting last night, but I have the perfect excuse. As those same regular readers may have noticed, I make it a point not to discuss personal events within the html pages of this blog. However, I am happy to reveal that my lovely wife and I spent last night celebrating the 10th Anniversary of my marriage. Why spoil it by breaking off to write about politics?
In the spirit of that celebration, I do want to recommend an excellent "date movie" and the one we saw before a memorable dinner out here at Hatfields in Los Angeles, Waitress. Sure to be remembered as an indie classic, it tells the story of a gifted pie-maker and lovelorn diner waitress, played with surprising credibility by Keri Russell, and what ensues when she learns that she's been rendered pregnant by her godawfully controlling and insecure husband, played by the always brilliant, painfully hilarious Jeremy Sisto.
While the film has the "indie-Hollywood" aspect of employing some well-known actors along with the unknown gems, and steers very close to preciousness in conception and sometimes execution, there's just so much humor and pain and life in the movie that I found myself (admittedly already in a romantic comedy-friendly mood) drawn in and having a great time.
Of particular note are late-blooming comedic actor Cheryl Hines (Curb Your Enthusiasm), who once again shows off her terrific skill and appeal, and in a maybe last-of-career supporting role, Andy Griffith. His presence seems to bestow the "Mayberry" seal-of-approval, as if Writer/Director/Co-Star Adrienne Shelly wants to make sure those old enough to remember do understand where she's coming from, creating an updated version of the loopy but recognizable smalltown America so many of us spent so many half-hours enjoying as children.
There is a tragic off-screen coda to the movie experience which seems to deepen the sweet and rueful emotions I felt watching the picture. Creator Shelly was brutally murdered in her NYC office late last year, and while the killer is being brought to justice, it's obviously a terrible thing. Not only did this asshole cut short the life of a 40 year-old woman, leaving her own 2 year-old daughter motherless and husband a widower, but he surely truncated the beginning of an undeniably promising career behind the camera. One can imagine the bigger romantic comedies Shelly could have made following this success, whether with Keri Russell or Diane Keaton or whoever might be a known or unexpected female romantic lead.
So here's to Ms. Shelly's final gift, a poignant one to her daughter per the closing sequence and final shot, and a welcome one for "romcom" hungry moviegoers.
In the spirit of that celebration, I do want to recommend an excellent "date movie" and the one we saw before a memorable dinner out here at Hatfields in Los Angeles, Waitress. Sure to be remembered as an indie classic, it tells the story of a gifted pie-maker and lovelorn diner waitress, played with surprising credibility by Keri Russell, and what ensues when she learns that she's been rendered pregnant by her godawfully controlling and insecure husband, played by the always brilliant, painfully hilarious Jeremy Sisto.
While the film has the "indie-Hollywood" aspect of employing some well-known actors along with the unknown gems, and steers very close to preciousness in conception and sometimes execution, there's just so much humor and pain and life in the movie that I found myself (admittedly already in a romantic comedy-friendly mood) drawn in and having a great time.
Of particular note are late-blooming comedic actor Cheryl Hines (Curb Your Enthusiasm), who once again shows off her terrific skill and appeal, and in a maybe last-of-career supporting role, Andy Griffith. His presence seems to bestow the "Mayberry" seal-of-approval, as if Writer/Director/Co-Star Adrienne Shelly wants to make sure those old enough to remember do understand where she's coming from, creating an updated version of the loopy but recognizable smalltown America so many of us spent so many half-hours enjoying as children.
There is a tragic off-screen coda to the movie experience which seems to deepen the sweet and rueful emotions I felt watching the picture. Creator Shelly was brutally murdered in her NYC office late last year, and while the killer is being brought to justice, it's obviously a terrible thing. Not only did this asshole cut short the life of a 40 year-old woman, leaving her own 2 year-old daughter motherless and husband a widower, but he surely truncated the beginning of an undeniably promising career behind the camera. One can imagine the bigger romantic comedies Shelly could have made following this success, whether with Keri Russell or Diane Keaton or whoever might be a known or unexpected female romantic lead.
So here's to Ms. Shelly's final gift, a poignant one to her daughter per the closing sequence and final shot, and a welcome one for "romcom" hungry moviegoers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)