Alan Arkin, and what he meant to me

Yesterday,  Alan Arkin passed away. 

He's always been there, since my childhood.  One of the great character actors. I have clear memories of my mom telling me who he was, how good he was. One of my earliest film memories was his pairing with the late great James Caan (who he shared a birthday with incidentally) Freebie & The Bean, a film Arkin disliked.  It was an early 70's action film often considered racist in certain circles, but has a cult following to this day that seems to be growing in increments, probably due to the lightning-quick dialogue and ahead of their time vehicular shenanigans.  It was also probably the first buddy-cop-action comedy.

In recent years, he appeared in a remake of Going in Style with Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman, the criminally underrated Stand up Guys with Al Pacino and Christopher Walken, and two seasons of tour de force support in Michael Douglas' series The Kominsky Method.  He's brilliant in all of it.  He drew belly laughs and poignant heartfelt reactions all the way through.

My wife and I recently watched the 1967 tension machine Wait Until Dark, one of his earliest film appearances.  As nice as Arkin is noted for being, he was the personification of evil in this film. When you consider the beauty of his performance as "Unca Lou" in Mike Binder's hellishly underappreciated Indian Summer, it's clear and apparent how he was the ultimate character actor.  He could run the gamut from awful to wonderful, and sell them both with just his eyes, if so required.

I can still hear him say, as he's bringing a spoonful of cereal to his mouth, "They're just a bunch of old cabins." in one of Indian Summer's most important lines.   It didn't seem like he was saying much.

But He was saying everything. 

His memoir, An Improvised Life, is a beautiful book that functions as an examination of his art, his skill.  He doesn't share stories of a long career in Hollywood, dishing out the humorous or salacious, instead he paints a picture of how he developed what he held such pride in.  Giving and taking with others on the stage first, and then the screen. 

Also, he was a striking image of my father.  From the physical to the aural.  When Alan Arkin laughed, I heard my dad.  His scoff and grin, so similar.  And that deep tone that his voice developed into as he aged was a sound mirror of dad's.  His commonalities with Pop are not what make me a member of the Arkin cult, (because I was a member decades before they grew towards each other in likeness) but just a nice addition. 

A warm one.

I wept this morning when I got the news, Alan.  I did.  I still have Freebie, Inspector Closeau, Thin Ice, Catch-22, The Russians are Coming, Glengarry Glenn Ross, Little Miss Sunshine, (for which he won an Oscar) those small but perfect parts in Grosse Pointe Blank, Argo, Grudge Match, and countless others.

But knowing more are not coming makes me sad.  And knowing both you and my dad are no longer here makes me even sadder.

Thank you, Alan.  For all of it.

Kicking Fears in the Asshole

As a kid I was terrified of two things.

Nuclear War

Tornados.  (No, not the delicious deep fried snack food).  Click on the photo to enjoy the awesomeness.

Truly, there was nothing I hated more than seeing this shit:

or this:

 

Sometimes it was really bad:

 

This was bad enough:  The Guyana Jonestown Massacre was bad enough. I remember this clearly, and the concept of one man being able to talk people into doing the most horrid of actions petrified me. Cult behavior still scares the shit out of me, but back then for the most part, when the National Network broke in, it meant two words in my mind:

They. Launched.

I battled these fears on the nightly quite often. I go deep into the nuclear end here.

I figured out a way to combat those fears and make them, at the least, tolerable.  That was knowledge.  I began watching documentaries and reading books about the subjects, and learning the roots and creations of these destructive forces, and that brought them down to my level.

Books like Gerard DeGroot's The Bomb: A Life, Stephen Walker's Shockwave, Richard Rhodes uber-thick Making of the Atomic Bomb, and Peter Kuran's genius film  Trinity & Beyond: The Atomic Bomb Movie, brought the humanity of the nightmare into the picture, and for some reason, made it less scary overall.  The Nuclear Weapon is a human conceit, and therefore under control of people.  I learned that no one wants to make Mutually Assured Destruction happen, and that launching one takes the involvement of more than one person with that goal in mind.  Highly unlikely. (I hope).

The tornado is not under any control.  As stated, a nuclear weapon is something only a human being can unleash upon the world.  The tornado, is the child of the supercell thunderstorm, but does not obey the orders of any parent. It obeys no road maps, is affected by no conditions, no construction, no landforms.

So I did the same research.  I did the reading and learned how the tornado formed, the history of its damage, and the odds.  I tried to relay this upon my kids.  The odds of a tornado forming, let alone forming above you are small.  Not impossible, but very small.  I don't know if this has helped my kids deal with their fears in any way.  However, as a kid myself, when I did the math in my head, and actually saw one in person, the fear became a subtle background issue, and not a walking nightmare.

There's a reason there are people called storm chasers.  Tornados don't come to you often enough to have that around the clock, gut-rot fear.

Now, I just have to get around to doing something for that fear of cults.  I'm halfway through the terrifying Raven,  (I had to take a break, the writers' cold unemotional description of vividly horrid events seemed a little too unnerving) and the way these people drifted to Jim Jones, and did what he wanted, seems all too familiar.

Some people can talk themselves into listening to and obeying anyone.

Those Quiet Moments: The Debut of Van Damme and the concept of the movie theatre

 

 February 26, 1988. It was a cold night in central Wisconsin.  A friend of mine, Mark, and myself decided to go see what was the first mainstream martial arts film in America since Kill or Be Killed. or perhaps Best of the Best.    There was some bullshit marketing here of course, as Jean-Claude Van Damme was billed in the advertising as being a former competitive martial arts champion.  

Yes, we were there to see Bloodsport.

Now, I guess there's some truth to the championship pedigrees, but it was some off the fringes association that he was the champ of, not any well known international or even American conglomerate.  However, Mr. Van Damme was not only a snappy martial artist nonetheless, but had extensive ballet background as well, giving him flexibility that exceeded even many of the best martial arts purveyors. 

So.  Was he great?  Probably not.  

Did he make it look good?  Hell yeah, he did. That ballet really helped.

It's legendary lore that after JCVD came to America, he appeared in a couple things here and there, but didn't stick. He eventually hung out in the Cannon Films waiting area, trying to get Menachem Golem to give him an acting job by displaying kicks and punches in the lobby, sort of an impromptu audition.  (see the doc Electric Boogaloo or The Cannon Film Guide Vol. 1.). 

One half of the go-go boys was impressed enough to greenlight Bloodsport, but hated it and buried the flick.  Once Cannon began to struggle financially, it was resurrected and led to the brief stardom of JCVD, a guy I still have a soft spot for, not just for this film however. It was admittedly bad, and acted so awfully that it had to embarrass the legendary Roy Chiao.  OK, Donald Gibb and Bolo Yeung carry their weight. 

I was also a great admirer of Timecop, Universal Soldier, and the films he made as the first stateside actor (Yes, I know he's originally from Belgium) to work with the Hong Kong greats John Woo, Tsui Hark, and Ringo Lam.  He also practiced pretty damn solid script selection once he fell into direct-to-video purgatory, as many of those films are much better than those of his fallen 80's contemporaries, and his series on Amazon, Jean Claude Van Johnson is a goddamn hoot to boot.

Anyway, I remember snow falling lightly on that quiet Friday night as Mark and I got out of our shared cab at the Rogers Cinema near the Wausau Center Mall.  The snow-covered ground crunched on our approach, a bite of cold in the air stinging our cheeks as we entered the theatre, then descended to the basement screen, complete with a pole in the middle of the seating.  It's an old building, still there, but no longer a cinema.  I remember sitting there in the cheap upholstery, warming up in a seat not far from the pole. 

There's something fascinating about a theatre with ceilings that low.  There was barely enough clearance for the projected beam to reach the screen.  (This was before digital after all, nothing but good old 35 mm in 1988).   Being from the Milwaukee area originally, I was not unfamiliar with theaters like Kenosha's  Lake 1 and 2, where I saw Bambi with my mom as a child, Star Trek: The Motion Picture with my ailing father,  and Silent Rage with my Dad as teen. An old-ass building with ornate balconies, classy furnishings, and employees in full usher regalia.  It was, after all, a former opera house.

There was also the monolithic United Artists Cinema 5, Kenosha's first true Multiplex, where I saw E.T. the Extra Terrestrial in 1982 (on a second try, the first attempt was sold out, Thanks, Mom!!), and Die Hard 2 in 1990.  I was alone for that one.  But the Lakes were a special situation.

By the way, if you're looking for a great place to see a movie in Wisconsin in a house that's been around forever and still flickers a pic to this day, try the Plaza in Burlington.

The Rogers, however, was a mini-multi-plex.  An oxymoron if there ever was one. Mark and I sat there quietly waiting for the lights to dim for the trailers, hum of the heating system filling the air, me chewing my Dots as I was really taken aback by how just about any space can be turned into something else with creative engineering, elbow grease, and a lack of concern for aesthetics. If you click on the Rogers link a couple of paragraphs back, you can see its original intent was not as a movie theatre, let alone five of them.

I've mentioned this prior on this blog, but there was an even smaller screen in house upstairs, where I saw Good Morning Vietnam very late in its run, on a Rogers screen not much bigger than what's in most peoples living rooms these days.  Why was that screening room so bright, anyway?  Ridiculous experience, that one.

Anyhow, God rest the Rogers. 

And the resident spirit, Bob. If he still dwells there, rattling things.

And long live the Plaza. 

My family and Soda Pop

I'm a soda connoisseur. 

Trained.  Seriously. 

My favorite soda, hands down, is Mello Yello.  Now, Mountain Dew is a fine beverage, but Coca-Cola's answer to it? 

Far Superior, friends & family. 

I take a lot of grief from my editor and wife for being addicted to soda.  Addicted?  I'd say enthralled and educated.  However, as a kid, My Dad had established a two cans a day rule for me when I hit the age of 12.  Like that was the alcohol age for soda or something.   I held to that, as it wasn't hard.  This was the early 80's where you could turn in your empty glass bottle for a deposit.

Why does it feel like a million years ago?

Also, what happened to the language issue:  It was once called "Pop".  In the mid 80's, in Texas, they called it "Soda Water".  

Now everywhere it's soda.  I have no idea what happened there with the verbage.

Digressing.  Soda is a preference thing.  As evidenced above, citrus soda is my favorite, with Mello Yello getting harder and harder to find.  Not available in Texas anymore, I have to get it from a Wendy's or Arby's fountain, or those finer restaurants (because Firehouse and Pei Wei is CLASS) that have Coca- Cola Freestyle machines.  Otherwise,  I'm shit out of luck.  My siblings?  My family tends to lean toward Pepsi.  

I remember during the Cola Wars, my mentor and brother-in-law Don had to demonstrate his skills in knowing the difference.  At a minor league baseball game in Wausau, Wisconsin circa 1987, Coke had a taste testing table in the dirt path to the restroom.  He took a sip of each and blew the Coke in a spray of defiance across the walkway.  Overdramatic?  Sure, maybe.  

I call it loyalty, as he WAS a soldier in the Cola war.

My sister Linda prefers Pepsi, or as she calls it, ZI.  Like a fine wine student, she pairs it with her favorite food.  Pizza, or ZA. 

That's right.  Zi and Za on a Friday Night.

However, Ma is a Coke drinker from way back.  She still is.  On visits, there's always a cold 12 in the fridge.

Speaking of cola, one afternoon in 1989, I drank two Jolts and cleaned my brother-in-law's basement.  

Anyway.

Laurie isn't much of a soda drinker as I can remember, neither is my brother Dan.  Although everybody took part in imbibing Wisconsin's multi-flavor mix and match, Jolly Good at one time.  The taste was indeed cost effective on most of their flavors.

My connoseiurship probably began in early childhood with a company in Kenosha, Wisconsin called Sparco.  Also a mix and match outfit, they made their own, it wasn't carried in grocery stores.  This is probably where Laurie's love of Black Cherry Cola came from.  You walked in and filled a case of 24 glass bottles.   Dad brought this out with the popcorn on movie nights.

However, I've experimented a lot, despite my pickiness.  Next door to my sister Pam's Taco Bell that I worked at was Carl's Hardware.  Standing stoically out front was a really old Double Cola machine.  I often hit that on my way home from work.  It must be some astronomical anomaly as this has been the only time in my life I've encountered that machine.   The soda is regional to the northeast, (New Jersey, New York, and Philadelphia), but it's headquartered in Tennessee apparently.  

So, what that machine was doing in Schofield, WI is still a mystery to me.  

I mean, I've even done some research.  Like a carbonated beverage Fox Mulder.  Can you hear the theme from the X-Files?

I think Double Cola was briefly held at a warehouse in Schofield or Weston WI.  I remember picking up a 12 pack from there wholesale.  Somehow, my Dad found they were stocking it there, and that may be the link to Carl's vending machine. 

My Dad was always finding shit like that out?  How did he do that?

But stocking that machine seemed a lot of effort for a small return if upping sales was their goal.

Now here In Texas, everybody loves this funky Big Red stuff. I've tried it, and  I don't get it.  It's red cream soda.  Kinda tastes like bubble gum. 

But it's BIG apparently.  Like everything else in Texas.  (eye rolls here)  

My kid, Aidan using a shocking video brought me to the attention of Mountain Dew Voo-Dew.

For a breakdown of my flavor variant experimentation, especially seasonally, click here.

In the culture, I'm sure it raises questions, like what the hell is McFly asking for here:

 

 It's all about this:

And maybe this:   Voo-Dew

And if you need more reminding of the truth, turn to no other than the late, great Jim Varney, or Ernest P. Worrell:

Officiating officially Sucks

This was written two years ago.  I kept it in the tank, as I thought the first time the Heat knocked us out, it was a bit on the weird side. I thought the piece may have been a bit bitter, over the top, and unrealistic, though. 

But this year, It was a little hard to comprehend the repetitiveness of consistently incredible play that normally doesn't appear suddenly exploding from a team that barely made the playoffs.  The Heat literally backed in.  Here they were though, looking untouchable while surging to knock my team who had once again achieved the best record in the league, out 4 games to 1. 

So here it is:

I fell in love with NBA basketball in the winter of 1983, the game introduced to me by my then best friend Jon.  Jon  spent most of his weekends at his aunt's house, which just happened to be next door to mine.  My hometown team was an excellent one, and as the year stretched into 1984, I was consumed with the sport.  Watching the Bucks at every given opportunity.  The shooting and driving prowess of Terry Cummings, the aggresive bulldog on offense and defense that was Sidney Moncrief, the man who created the postition of point forward, Paul Pressey, and the NBA's best sixth man, Ricky Pierce.  Coached by Don Nelson, they were a machine and a blast to watch.  

Frequenting the playoffs every year, they would always just fall short.  Sure, the names above were among the best in the league at what they did, but the bench talent, apart from Pierce, was not the type to shore up the starters.  Trying to go to war against the Celtics and Sixers every year with Paul Mokeski, Randy Breuer and Jerry Reynolds coming off the bench (God love their A for Effort) didn't measure up against the pummeling walls of those other Eastern Conference Juggernauts.  Even after they eventually added Sonics star Jack Sikma in 1985, and hall of famer Bob Lanier, It was a frustrating war of attrition. 

One thing always rubbed me the wrong way.  The Bucks were scrappers.  Fighters.  Going against teams of superior talent, they would often outplay, and Nelson would outcoach their opponents.  But, and it's a big but, there was always one thing evening the playing field.

Officiating.  Teams with superior talent don't need the help of the supposed non partisan enforcers of rules, but oh, did they get it.  And in spades.

But as the 80's grew into the 90's it became more and more the case.  It became so bad, that I stopped watching games that didn't involve the Bucks.  It grew tiresome, especially as the Bucks resurged in the late 90's, watching Ray Allen, Tim Thomas, and Glenn Robinson hacked to the floor with no recompense, as guys like Shaquille O'Neal, Allen Iverson, and Michael Jordan would go to the line when breathed or farted upon. 

Let's jump forward to the now, where Milwaukee's Giannis Antetekounmpo, is arguably the best player in the league. Still I have sat and watched as last years Khwai Leonard-led Raptors, and this year's Jimmy Butler-fronted Heat were field generals for a group that drew whistles, play stoppage, and shots from the line at one end, as if the damn referee is a Ringling Bros. big top leader pulling overtime.  Then I sit in stunned silence after seeing Giannis and his crew laying under the backboard after being clobbered (no mean feat with the 6'11 and monolithically built Antetekounmpo) while everyone else is headed back to the other end of the court. 

This years Eastern Conference semifinals played out almost exactly like last years. Two years in a row, the Bucks have lost to inferior opponents, with the officials playing a massive role in the mess.  Often, and this fits with the Milwaukee Brewers as well, (two years ago, the Brewers came within the width of a matchstick of knocking the league's darlings, Los Angeles, out of the tournament) politics feels like it may be a factor.  Milwaukee is, in comparison, a much smaller market team, more than likely to draw smaller viewing audiences for the networks in a championship situation.  That doesn't make it okay however, if there is some sort of interference involved to steer things.  Especially when you have the two time MVP on your squad, an all-star guard next to him, and the deepest bench in the league.  I don't believe they were outplayed two years in a row, and I sure as hell don't buy that they're over-rated. 

Call me a homer.  I grew up with the late 70's and 80's Packers who were awful.  I was spoiled the year I became a baseball fan because my Brewers went to the World Series, but it's been a slog since and 1982 was a long fucking time ago. But  I'm fine with that "homer" shit.  I will worship at the altar of franchises with all-time losing records because I grew up in their backyard all day long, instead of front-running with the League and marketing executive's darlings who glamourize big city players and broadcast all their games every week nationally.  My only exception there is the Green Bay Packers, perennial winners, but the NFC title game has been a nightmare for us going on 10 years now.  Heartbreaking.

It's just that sometimes Something smells funny.  That's all I'm saying. 

KEITH DAVID: THE MAN, THE MYTH

Many thanks to those who read about the wonderful (and weird) career of David Lemuel Keith.

Now what about Keith David?   Like David Keith, you know him.  Like David Keith, his face may not pop up into your head when hearing his name,

but when you hear his voice.....

God-tier vocal work.  A rich rumble-of-God excursion of rolling thunder that is unmistakable.

He's a classically trained actor, and it shows in his skilled work. 

But you know his face too....

The early part of his career he featured in John Carpenter roles, as Childs in The Thing and Frank in They Live.   Those are just the beginning.  Despite his intimidating stature (and voice), the man is capable of a broad type of performance.  Comedy?  Dude, he's the best thing about the overrated There's Something About Mary, and how about that looney performance in Emilio Estevez' underrated Men at Work?  High Drama?  That's what he's known for, as he is incredible as King in Oliver Stone's Platoon, and his filmography includes An Eye for an Eye, The Riddick films, Transporter 2, Sam Raimi's western The Quick and the Dead, and  Michael Bay's Armageddon, among many, many others. 

Like his name reversal counterpart, he had the ability to be the epitome of kindness, gentle in motion and voice.  And with the same tools, be intimidating as hell.

Thusly, big and small screen have enjoyed his presence as well as the stage for decades, as he has been nominated for and won more than one Emmy and a Tony.   Speaking of small screen, in the last year, he has dominated as the gangster villain in HBO's Duster, (cancelled after one season, that's some bullshit) and FX's absolutely fantastic The Lowdown with Ethan Hawke.  Thank the stars, recently renewed.

And the man possesses what may be the best voice in animation working for the last 25 years.  Just see the video above.  It speaks (literally) for itself.

Plus, he one of the all time great interviews.

The world needs more Keith Davids, because there aren't many.

The Bose Elementary School Card Market

We huddled in bunches on the the playground at recess. A large group of 6th graders turning in a slow circle.  This was of multiple benefits.  Wisconsin falls and winters during the school year are, of course, cold.  The body temperatures contributed to a group warmth. 

Also, we needed to see each other's cards. 

No, we weren't cheating at poker.  

Stacks of cardboard, scented by pink dusty gum, bonded together by rubber bands (a no-no today), less often in clear sheets of nine, enveloped in binders for protection, were on display.  We were a mini-stock market, gathered around in circles, trading in baseball, football, less often basketball.  

Bubble gum cards.

It seems an obviously difficult task, all these cards changing hands for trade evaluation, without some ending up in the wrong paws before returning to their original holders.

It was an honor system.  We trusted each other (for the most part).

It wasn't perfect, however.  Once my stack came back missing a 1973 Pete Rose.  Then, a serious card. My 1981 Fleer Sixto Lezcano suddenly had a wrinkle in it that it didn't have before.  (Luckily I had doubles of ol' Sixto).   For the most part the system worked.

Now, mind you, we paid attention to dollar values back then to a certain degree.  A few Beckett magazines or an annually published priced guide could be found floating about.  But it wasn't the be all/end all of a potential deal.  The "Homer Factor" sometimes led to the un-even deal.  I was known to trade a card worth far more than the one being offered by my trade partner, because the player I was trading for played for the Milwaukee Brewers, Green Bay Packers, or Milwaukee Bucks.  I took grief from several friends in that arena. 

"Rob, don't just try to get Brewers, GET GREAT PLAYERS!!"

 But I had just started this business within the last year, and there were decades of Topps going back, and a couple of years of Donruss and Fleer.  

An ocean of possible home team players for me to acquire.

Sometimes you'd get the coup de grace.  A current Brewer/Packer on a card with a former team. I almost had a stroke when a friend willingly dealt me a 1978 Ben Oglivie (with the Detroit Tigers) for what I thought was a card far less steeped in value (perhaps just in sentimentality to me) not in cash.  I'm sure in that regard, I was taken to the cleaners.

Below is the actual card.  In pretty damn good shape since the trade of 1982 that resulted in me clicking my heels like July Garland after getting off the bus that day.

There was the crown jewel that I wanted to get amongst our swirling of card traders.  Our Bose Elementary traders.  One had a 1975 George Scott.  He was the Brewers all-star first-baseman who had played for the Crew long before I began watching the team. 

But to me at that time, 1975 may as well have been the Paleozoic Era.  And what a great image of The Boomer the card featured!  (However the 1977 card of George featured a far more detailed shot highlighting the "shark's teeth" around his neck).

Alas, I was never able to convince this chap to let loose in a deal.  I would acquire this card via eBay in 2008. Many eons later.  I won't forget the feeling I had when I opened the envelope it came in, for a card I paid .75 for.  

I felt like that kid again, peeling open a wax pack, but this time knowing the gem was coming. 

That boy on that freezing playground who had gotten that Ben Oglivie so many years earlier.  That's how I felt. 

I have written on this blog before about how baseball at this time was a religion.

How I was a student of its seminary.

Baseball cards were rosary beads.  They were prayer candles. 

And yes, these players, with their image emblazoned in cardboard.

These were saints.

(Not the New Orleans ones)

Others that read this blog know my main sports hero of the time (and to a degree, today) was Green Bay Packers besieged quarterback Lynn Dickey. I elaborated years ago here.  It wasn't until we had moved to Waco, TX in 1985 and my friend Bill slyly and with pomp and circumstance pulled out of his deck a 1975 Topps card of Dickey (with the Houston Oilers) that I saw what I felt was the Holy Grail. 

Its light shone on me and beheld me in its trance. I dropped to my knees, dipping down my head in reverence.  However, I was both jealous and happy for Bill. He was also a former Wisconsin resident (as our worship of Lynn was on an equal level).  

Although in all fairness, he being originally from Maine, was a grand admirer of New England Patriots' veteran signal caller Steve Grogan, and collected his many cards when possible. So, when it came to Clifford Lynn Dickey, I had the edge in fanhood, in my opinion. 

I did eventually buy that 1975 card at a card show years later, but right next to it on display?  A 1974 Lynn Dickey (also known as his rookie card). 

Begin church choir music here.

I bought the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant both for a total of $2.75.  

Again, ....  HOMER.