Brankton Walks Austin

Brankton started out the day as usual with a nasty little headache. Not enough oxygen to the brain. The majority of his family, dominated by males, suffered from the same malady, that is to say, snoring, but with Grizzly bear ferocity, capital ‘S’ snoring.

Years ago on a ski holiday to some swanky resort in Utah hanging out with all of the swells with their whiz-bang skiing accoutrement and private chalets adjoining the main run, the unfortunate souls in the townhouse next to his family actually complained to the leasing company that their trip was ruined because of the ungodly racket that he and a half-dozen of his brothers harmonized for four nights of sonorous hell. Not even the most desperate succubus would sit on the chest of any of his brothers, attempting to snatch a soul during the night. Upon hearing the horrific sound emanating from their large, undulating thorax, the noise most assuredly would drive even the stoutest of succubi away. Having been married to and driven one off, Brankton felt he should know.

He walked the Austin neighborhood by himself, with its old twisted oaks and the occasional stray cat and ubiquitous Obama/Biden yard signs. Austin might be in Texas, but it's the liberal hub of the south with plenty of state employees working at and owing their allegiance to the "sunset red" hued granite Capitol building right off of Congress Ave. Brankton was finally getting used to making his daily constitutional alone, although this trip to the big hat capitol caused him to feel a bit more out of sorts than usual. His momentary boredom had its typical result -- Brankton was feeling hungry.

Sitting alone in the multi-level mid-century house turned into a restaurant on 6^th St., Brankton ordered the “big ole pancakes” for brunch. He was beginning to regret the blue wool sweater that he put on in much cooler Los Angeles just a few short hours earlier. The typical Austin weather of 95% humidity and low 90’s temp did not agree with his sartorial norm; especially in a restaurant with two dozen obviously gay men surrounding him, dressed much more weather appropriate with assorted chambray shirts and long board shorts and snug-fitting t-shirts, now frowning upon his choice of garb, he felt, save for one very attractive co-ed “friend of the gays” who, with her masculine, deep voice, oozed a sexual confidence that mocked Brankton’s recent string of asexual years. Brankton spied her looking his way several times in a few short minutes, which of course meant she saw him seeing her.

Ten long minutes later, his heavily tatted and overly tanned waitress informed him that she forgot brunch was over and that he would have to forgo the pancakes he had been thinking about and craving for a month now. Brankton had visions of a rotund Orson Welles with white chef hat in the back somewhere saying that he'd "flip no flapjack before it's time." He also had a vision of smacking the sass off that fat man's face. His pancake cravings started right after his wife left him and took their dog along with her “big ole” pancake recipe, the one hanging on the fridge, and not much else -- though he wished she had taken the cuckold knife out of his back at least for sense of symmetry.

The twenty-something Janeane Garofalo-type with the gay men had a mouth on her that, for lack of a better emotion or description, disappointed Brankton. Her descriptions of “her gay” -- as she proudly called her homosexual best friend -- and his proclivities for certain gay sex put Brankton’s gag reflex on overdrive at the sight of the gravy-covered chicken-fried-chicken that he reluctantly ordered due to the no pancake past brunch rule. He wasn’t the only one to cringe either. There was a family of four “to his 9” – this was his grandfather’s phrase when he wanted to say “to the left” in a cool sort of grandpa way -- who looked as out of place as an Amish family with big tall black hats and long ZZ-Top beards shopping in a Fred Segal store.

She continued unabated regaling the men in her gay coffee clutch. Some occasionally tried to compete with her, but she had the floor and wasn't about to let the spotlight slip from her grasp for a moment. None really could compete; her stories had just the right combination of raunch, real life patois, and an unexpected ending. And of course, she knew her audience, and they laughed, which inspired even filthier anecdotes. She had an expert comedienne’s deft touch, though the venue and time-slot were no doubt inappropriate.

“What?!” the twenty-something "Janeane Garofalo" finally asked Brankton as she caught him glancing her direction one-dozen times too many. Her friends were caught up in conversations about Barton Springs and some festival that was about to take place. None of her friends would hear his response so he was confident, at least more confident than he would have otherwise been.

“You’re crude. Crude, but funny.” Brankton turned in his seat to deliver what he thought would be his final line more forcefully. “In fact, I’d say your crudeness is bordering on rudeness. You’re a crudeness/rudeness straddler.”

“Is that so?” She turned in her seat to catch his opinion head-on. “Well who exactly cares what you think?”

“NBC does.” Brankton regretted saying it the instant the two-word reply left his half-filled chicken-fried-chicken mouth.

“NBC? What, is that supposed to impress me?” The coffee clutch was breaking up and her friends were throwing 20’s into a pile to pay for their meal. They were waiting for her to pony up as well. “Jackie, $20.00 please,” said a friend from somewhere in the scrum.

Jackie turned her head only slightly from Brankton for a moment, “Nels, can you cover me please?” “Oh, shit, girl,” was the response from Nelson who had obviously “covered” one too many times for Jackie. Her “Oh, please!” retort belied a belief that she had indeed earned her keep with her mid-morning improv routine.

“So, Mr. NBC, you were saying.”

Please find Part 2 here to continue reading

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Death Takes a Holiday ... Not (Redux)

Death is all around us. And, unlike Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black, with his one-off holiday vis-a-vis Anthony Hopkins's swanky world, death seems to be working overtime in our senior living centers, foreign war zones, and unfortunately, certain neighborhoods here in Los Angeles. I live in one such area in L.A. with nightly gunshots and the ubiquitous crime scene taped off around the liquor stores aplenty on every block. The police helicopter becomes this mechanical vulture illuminating the presence of a fresh kill or that police units are in hot pursuit. You never quite get used to the constant reminders of your mortality, the way one takes it for granted living in the suburbs from whence I hail. Maybe that's why there are five-times the number of churches in L.A. proper.

A few months ago, a young man three doors down from my house was shot and killed. He was standing with a group of young men and women early in the evening when the unnoticed coward walked up and fired at point-blank range. While everyone scattered for their lives jumping behind walls and cars, the killer jogged to the awaiting van and was driven away leaving an all-too-common scene for a heart-broken father away on a business trip to come home to. The police said it was an initiation killing and that our neighbor was in the wrong place, etc. There are just too many etc.'s in our inner cities today. Perhaps President Obama should propose a war on domestic terror and pull a few billion out of the "stimulus bill" where it might actually do some good by hiring extra police and specially trained gang units. Now there's some hope and change I'd like to see become a reality.

I have witnessed or come across three such murders while here in the 'hood, and my brothers and friends are constantly telling me to move away. But, I remind them that when I lived in the safe suburbs, my little brother and I watched early one morning as the coroner's office took away our neighbor, Mr. 'D', who had kissed his daughter (with her friend over for a sleepover) and son goodnight, sat himself down late-night in his car parked with the engine running in their closed garage, and drove himself into the afterlife. We sat there in our side yard not 10 feet away from the coroner as he wheeled Mr. 'D', who was covered in a blanket or bag, into the back of the station wagon with its windows blackened. We knew that he was dead, like kids just know or divine the truth out of a situation without really knowing. You know?

Just a few short years after Mr. 'D's departure, I went to see Rollerball, starring Jimmy Caan -- my older brother James took my little brother and me. Driving back home up the hill that leads to our parent's house, we were stunned to see bodies covered with blood stained sheets in the driveway across the street from our house. This was the aftermath of a murder, attempted-suicide (the murderer later died in a coma). Thankfully, our neighbor Mr. 'C' and other members of the family (our young friends) survived. He later remarried and has been blissfully happy for the past 25 years. But, that night, in the safe suburbs, my brother Gil became a hero. When bullets were flying, and an off-duty cop's revolver was jamming, my next door neighbor Mrs. Glenn tried to stop the onslaught; it was my 14 year-old brother who tackled her, knocking her into the bushes, and dragged her back to safety. Death doesn't take a holiday, and when it's our time, we should all be ready to give an account for the life we're living, whether we're in Happy Dale sanitarium, Afghanistan, or Beverly Hills.

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Helms Man, Watermelon Man ... Redux

Good people work hard. They work hard and rear their families as best they can, whether making $125,000 or $25,000. I've known one family making a million dollars per annum, with salt-of-the-earth parents and great kids (Hollywood types), and another family with a dad who quite literally collects recycled materials and hauls trash to make ends meet (Hauling types). Both of these families have a few things in common: they own their homes, with children who attend private/religious schools, and both are credits to their neighborhoods.

Good people work hard, and to work is a blessing from a good God, so says the Puritan work ethic and King Solomon in Ecclesiastes (before everything became vanity). Occasionally my sons will ask me about the men we see waiting by Home Depot for work. "Dad, why are some of the workers dirty? Are they from countries that are dirty?" I tell them that these men put many of the men in suits on the same LA streets to shame with their amazing work ethic and indefatigable spirit to make a living. And, yes, they may be dirty, but their day-laborer métier is a badge of honor. That's what I tell my sons. If I had their work ethic, thick skin and stamina, then I'd be Richard Branson successful (see Ex Libris ... 2009, right) of Virgin Group fame.

When I was a kid -- 4 and 5 years old -- the Helms Man used to come through our neighborhood regularly. I can still hear the distinct "wooot, wooot" whistle of the Helms truck telling all who had ears to hear that calorie-loaded goodness was drawing nigh. And, like any good childhood memory, there was food involved.

Many times as I was walking to kindergarten (when children still walked to school), I would wave down the Helms Man and he'd stop and give me a chocolate chip cookie and a bag of M&Ms. I'd put it on our tab and then he'd charge my mom (since she always slept-in, she could not stop such mid-morning gastronomical tomfoolery). The yellow truck was modified with all sorts of doors that opened, revealing still more drawers, some which were very narrow and long, or very flat and wide. In these drawers and behind those doors were the time-tested still-warm goodies of a bygone era: pastries, doughnuts, cookies, and some store-bought candy all within steps of your home or on your way to kindergarten.

Lots of memories from that time have stayed with me: the feel-good aroma that poured out of the Helms truck every time those doors opened (like the perfume scented memory of loving grandma's bakery hug). Or, the sonic memory of clanking bottles (both full and empty) when the milkman would drop off the milk on his morning round -- which occasionally included a bottle of thick-n-rich chocolate milk after my little brother and I would mark up the order card with an extra 'X' in the box. Which I suppose was appropriate as we were the beginning of the generation tagged with moniker 'X'.

Helms Bakery at its height of popularity was a 24-hour-a-day factory that cranked out fresh baked goods, and then loaded up hundreds of trucks around SoCal for daily delivery. Helms established the brand after landing the contract to supply the 1932 Olympics. Drivers like the Helms guys, and individuals like them, made a living by working the oil rigs, doing time on the assembly line, or walking a beat in Southern California. These guys are called the "greatest generation" because of their ability to see something that had to be done, and then going about their doing it without any fanfare whatsoever (like stopping some of the grossest evils mankind has ever seen in Nazi Germany, Imperialist Japan or despotic fascist Italy). They believed in duties, not rights.

Just this last week, I heard the call of the Watermelon Man. I hear it occasionally, maybe four times in the last five years. "Watermelon Man. Fresh, cold melons. Get your melons. Watermelon man. " I can hear the octogenarian driver as he barely above a whisper calls to his former clients over his loud speaker, many who are either no longer alive, no longer hear, or have moved out of the ole neighborhood. I'm not sure what's the bigger surprise, that his truck still operates, or that he's still working at 82? What doesn't surprise me, is that good people from all walks of life work hard, and find tremendous satisfaction in a job well done. Especially if that job helps men and women with calloused hands meet the needs of their families in a very expensive City of Angels.

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"The Ghost Writer" ... New England Noir

There are a couple of suspense films out right now, both set on New England islands. New England Noir, if you will. You have Martin Scorsese's Shutter Island (which is sitting atop the box office two weeks running), and Roman Polanski's The Ghost Writer. Both are said to be in the vein of that great director Alfred Hitchcock, and both are quite good.

For my tastes, though, Shutter Island (Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Ruffalo and Emily Mortimer), is a bit too on the nose somehow, and as one would suspect, Marty’s efforts (may I call him Marty?) are more graphic. Shutter Island is set inside an insane asylum which isn't exactly the typical location of a Hitchcock film, though he did enjoy prodding the breadth and depths of madness with his sharp cinematic stick seemingly at will. Though I enjoyed the by-the-numbers Shutter Island, Ghost Writer, for my money, is the better bet if you're up for seeing a good suspense/whodunnit feature this weekend.

Ghost Writer is a taut political thriller to be sure, with some ripe filmmaking Freudian projections that anyone with a mere passing knowledge of what has been in the news regarding director Roman Polanski, former British prime minister Tony Blair, and several of those in Bush 43's administration will recognize.

The film opens with Ewan McGregor brought in to replace his predeceased predecessor whose body has washed ashore like some Nicholas Sparks message in a bottle. McGregor’s “Ghost” in effect becomes the ghost of the PM’s first ghost writer (just in case, a ghost writer is the real writer behind the scenes of many political first-person narratives). But, will he himself survive his new gig?

The recently retired prime minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) finds himself embroiled in a realpolitik showdown as The Hague begins investigating Blair, er, Lang, for allegedly ordering the water boarding of terrorists causing one of their deaths. As a result of this newly discovered political hot potato, an international commission investigation begins, in effect stranding the PM in the States. He cannot return to his country without facing a potential trial and conviction for “war crimes” (*much like an alleged rapist of drunken 13 yr-olds in Jack Nicholson’s hot tub – asterisks can be a nasty lot). He and his wife and their entourage of apparatchiks are holed-up in a post-modern Cape Cod manse owned by Lang's publisher, conveniently situated for New England Noir along a foreboding and eternally windswept Massachusetts strand of beach. The film is a moody piece throughout, with solid acting that keeps you guessing who could be behind the recent and suspicious death of the prime minister's ghost writer.

Hyper-attentive press and their helicopters, protesters animated with a rage against the machine hatred of the PM, mysterious men in shadows who are no doubt ill-intentioned, and the pressure on McGregor's character (who is simply credited as “The Ghost” at film’s end) to finish the tome within a month by his publisher, all drive the pacing of Ghost Writer. Kim Cattrall (Sex and the City), Olivia Williams (Rushmore) are the women in PM Adam Lang’s life. Kim is his aide-de-camp (and mistress), and Ms. Williams is the icy wife Ruth (Hillary Clintonesque), who is the real brains and political passion behind Lang’s conservative years at No. 10 Downing. Tom Wilkinson does a solid turn here as well as a former acquaintance from Oxford undergrad years and current Harvard professor.

The women in Ghost Writer are all strong. And, that’s perhaps Polanski’s greatest homage to the rotund director, Lord Alfred. Hitchcock routinely populated his films with strong women, including loyal housekeepers who have rung a German neck or two in their day (To Catch a Thief), or fired shots from a 9mm handgun at good guy trespassers (North by Northwest). Likewise, the Lang’s have a stout and steely housekeeper who is happy to make a sandwich or change the sheets, but never without a sideways glance, like a viper would its prey before a rapid strike of the Carotid artery. Ruth Lang is equally strong, and as a pragmatist, understands the value of political expediency. She hates the presence of Lang’s mistress, but allows it because her husband needs and values her. Which leads me to our protagonist; would that he were as strong (and smart) as the women of Ghost Writer. McGregor's character is obviously a fairly smart guy, but like in any good Hitchcock film, he's too trusting. We see in "the ghost" a man similar to Jimmy Stewart in The Man Who Knew Too Much or Jimmy again in Rear Window. He's smart enough to figure and decipher the mystery before him (and us) as he goes, but ask yourself, Dear Reader, if you see this fine film, would you make the same choices McGregor's Ghost does. I think not.

The layers of this film are many, and in the very beginning of the film when McGregor’s character is hired by the publisher, he and his editor walk to the London street below. He doesn’t know what it is, but there is something "not quite right," says the editor putting lean finger upon pensive lips as McGregor runs into the street hailing a cab. The ending of The Ghost Writer is shot exactly from this same spot, confirming our highly skilled book editor’s innate sense of wrongness with what little he’s been given to read. In life, as in this film, we often come full circle, our political and personal realities come back to face us like a wayward book flap that won't keep our place. Polanski now knows this all too well, and after a day or two of thinking on this fine film, I have seen that the director that touched me so deeply with Chinatown, is once again at the top of his directing game.

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