That's Something You Don't See Every Day, Chauncey

Watch me pull a rabbit outta my hat!

Posts Tagged ‘sports and star trek’

And I dance with your ghost, oh but that ain’t the way.

Posted by kozemp on February 10, 2018

I came late to the Gaslight Anthem. I don’t mean late in life – although I suppose by the strictest definition I sort of do – but late in the band’s career. I showed up late to the game. I missed the first period.

I can’t recall exactly how it happened, but one day four or five years ago I somehow fell down a wiki-hole and ended up googling “jersey shore sound.” This led me to links to a bunch of different acts, five or six if I recall, that were meant to be emblematic of that Jersey Shore sound.

I know for a fact that I listened to all of them, but the only one that stuck with me was The Gaslight Anthem. I loved these guys. The Gaslight Anthem are the foremost group who grew up listening to Springsteen, but something happened to them and instead of just another poetic roots-rocker the music got pushed into this odd place, a melange of that Jersey Shore calliope sound and something harder and rougher – punk, more or less, but it’s more than that.

If – getting broad here – the core question of Bruce Springsteen’s music is how we live with each other, the core of Brian Fallon and TGA is the question of how we live with ourselves. I used to joke that I wanted to make a jukebox musical from Gaslight Anthem songs, and it would be about the guy with the worst luck with women who ever lived, coming to realize that he was the problem all along. There’s a pretty clear line you can trace through their work, I think, and it’s not insignificant the album about Brian’s divorce was the band’s last.

It’s also not insignificant that of all the bands I listened to that week the Gaslight Anthem, whose throughline is “his problems with women were his fault all along” is the only one that stuck with me longer than a minute, but that’s another show.

So, like I do with a lot of things I fell immediately and head over heels in love with their music and spent weeks and months listening to it almost nonstop.

***

I don’t remember where we were going – I want to say I was driving him to a train someplace – but I picked my friend Danny up one day and as we were driving away I fired up the album Handwritten on my phone and “45” started playing.

“The Gaslight Anthem, John?” he looked at me. “Really?”

“What?” I said. “I just found these guys. I love this shit. You don’t like it?”

“No,” he said. “They’re fine. I mean, if you like that sort of thing.”

“I like that sort of thing.”

“This song is on the loading screen for NHL 13,” Dan said. “I like the band but I’ve heard this song like a million times.”

This was literally the worst possible thing Danny could have said to me.

I spent the next three years tormenting him with “45” every chance I could get. It started out simple, just posting the video of the song to his Facebook or texting him the Youtube link directly. Nothing even remotely subtle. Just sending him the link, trying to make him watch it. Le Chiffre-esque, I eschewed exotic tortures and just went for blunt force trauma.

When that stopped working I moved on to more esoteric measures. First came straight-up rickrolling him. I would send him a text with some tease like “hey did you see this Hazard goal?” and the accompanying video would be “45.” I would do similar things on Facebook and utilize the “hide preview” button so that he wouldn’t be able to tell it was TGA without clicking through. Eventually he told me he just wouldn’t look at any videos from me anymore without knowing exactly what they were. I started using bit.ly and got informed for my trouble that he wouldn’t look at any links period.

I would have to work harder.

At this point – I’d been at this for more than a year by now – I realized I couldn’t just try to get him to watch the music video any more. I had to make him FEEL the song. So I would randomly cut and paste lyrics onto his Facebook page. When we were at the pub or on the train to the Rock I would idly hum the melody during breaks in conversation. This drove him nuts. It was great.

Finally, one day I unleashed my pièce de résistance on him.

I spent the better part of an entire morning at the pub describing a fictional woman I had met, and the fictional tribulations we’d been through, leading up to a fictional date that was an absolute fictional disaster. It was a classic tale of my woe and ineptitude with the fairer sex (or Brian Fallon’s) that he had heard many similar versions of over the years, but I sprinkled fairy dust throughout so at the denouement, summarizing how hopeful I had been at the start and how crushed I was at the end by the terrible fictional things that had transpired with this fictional woman, I could look at my friend, offer a mighty heaving sigh and say, “really, buddy, have you seen my heart? Have you seen how it bleeds?”

Danny stared at me for a solid ten seconds, a glare that would have made a Gorgon look away in terror, before he said, “I fucking hate you, John.”

It was one of the best moments of my life.

We went on watching the game. I drove him home afterward and played a different Gaslight Anthem album in the car. Danny sat there in silence the whole ride, trying to look angry and to not laugh. When I was really on he made that face a lot. God, I miss it.

***

Danny and I used to go to one or two Devils games a year together. Those were great times, always. Sometimes big groups of folks would join us, other times just him and I. At one stretch we went to Devils-Sabres at the Rock three years in a row and I got to heckle Ryan Miller with the classic “HEY RYAN YOUR SKATES ARE UNTIED!” (Dan’s response: “you’re better than that, John.”) We were there for Game 7 when the Hurricanes scored 2 goals in 87 seconds to end the season. Goddamn Eric Staal. Okay, actually, that time was not great, but still.

It was that Game 7 when I start when I started buying these collectible coffee cups every time we went to a game. At first I was on one of my occasional no-soda binges and needing something to drink at the arena I saw “ooh! A black plastic cup with a big red Devils logo on it!” and got one. I must have still been soda-free the next game we went to because I got another. And then another and another until it snowballed into one of those things I “had” to do. I have about half a dozen lying around here different places. At least two of them are currently holding paintbrushes. (Those don’t get used for coffee again.)

After his daughter was born we never managed to make it work so we could all get up there. Those were rough seasons anyway, and I didn’t feel too bad about missing out on games when they weren’t very good. It’s not like popping on the El to head down to a Phillies game, which I’ll still do usually at least once a season, even through the nigh-constant rebuilding years. It’s 80 solid miles from here to the Prudential Center; not exactly something you can decide to take in on the last minute, and it’s not an appetizing prospect to spend two-plus hours each way driving back and forth to Hamilton and riding NJT to watch the Devils lose 5-2 to the Capitals. Again.

So there was a gap there of about two years or so where I didn’t make it to a game in person. But I had found NHLTV by then and gotten their subscription package and I could very easily watch the Devils lose 5-2 to the Caps (again) in the comfort of my own home. Danny and I would text back and forth when he knew I was watching the game. Dan knew hockey, I mean really KNEW it. He wrote about the game for a bunch of different newspapers and websites, appeared on podcasts, the whole works. He knew hockey in a way I don’t really know any sport, but we would still maintain almost constant text conversations throughout games. Usually his texts were about some high-level hockey strategy that went completely over my head and my texts were either a) baiting him into messages like that with purposefully boneheaded analysis, or b) taunting him about poor goalie play.

We argued about goalies all the time. He’d always say “not every goal is on the goalie.” I would counter with something like “so all five goals were the defensemen’s fault?” We would usually have this argument on nights when the Devils were egregiously bad. We would usually have this argument on those nights because I would instigate it. At one point, in the pub a few mornings after one of these arguments, I asked “can you hear me cackling when I text that?” He assured me he could.

The last text Danny ever sent me wasn’t during a hockey game. It was a question about Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade on a random Thursday night last winter. I didn’t answer. I read it, thought about it, realized the answer was fairly complex, and resolved to talk about it with him at length later. The call from his wife Steph came that Sunday morning and now I still go back and look at that text on my phone and kick myself for not saying SOMETHING that night. The one time in my life I declined the invitation to pontificate about Indiana Jones. I can’t make up stuff that sad. I’ve tried.

***

In the aftermath of Danny’s death I wrote that I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to a Devils game ever again. I didn’t watch a single minute of a game for the rest of last season after that weekend, putting hockey out of my head for a few months. Even on television it hurt too much to think about. I kept something of an eye out, mainly through the Devils subreddit – I knew they were still pretty bad, that Taylor Hall was having trouble fitting in, that, as Danny would always tell me, Cory Schneider was playing great but the defense in front of him was terrible. I read the headlines and occasionally dove into the comments but never participated. I didn’t want to be part of it.

I recognize now that was the exact wrong reaction, in no small way because when it comes to the Devils being part of it is the whole point. I’ve talked before about how in my experience Devils fans as a group are slightly nicer than other hockey fans because everyone is coming to the team from a distance. It’s not like the Flyers or the Rangers or whoever where you go to work and then pop right down to the arena for the game afterward, where the team is always right there next to you. Even local Devils fans are coming from someplace far away. (I mean, I assume there are SOME fans in Newark, but not many, and nobody lived in the Meadowlands.) Everyone is coming that distance, everyone is going out of their way, and instead of being cranky and mean about it there’s a sort of shared camaraderie of “well, we came all this way, let’s not spoil it.” I’m not saying there aren’t jerks and louts – there are anyplace large numbers of people gather – but my experiences with other Devils fans have always been positive.

My experiences have always been positive and when being part of something positive would have helped the most I was purposefully shutting it out. I was shutting it out because I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was shutting it out because, like Jim Kirk in Wrath of Khan, I’d never even considered dealing with it.

Make no mistake – when Kirk says he’s never faced death, this is what he (and David) meant. Not that he’s never faced his own death. No one ever really can. That’s the genius of Kirk’s solution to the Kobayashi Maru; not that he cheated, but that he recognized the whole test is bullshit to begin with. Your own death is incomprehensible. What Kirk had never considered – and nether had I – was the possibility of someone he cared about dying, someone really close to him, and when it finally came it blindsided him the way it blindsided me.

The difference is that Kirk knew enough to lean on the folks around him to get through it. Me, I didn’t know even that, so I shut out a lot of what probably would have been a very useful support system and decided, like I’d done with so many things before, to go it on my own. If I’d had my estranged son around to tell me not to be so hard on myself I might have tried something different, but if my estranged son is out there he hasn’t shown himself yet. I dated my own Carol Marcus enough times that it’s certainly possible.

***

When the start of the season rolled around I saw something on r/Devils that intrigued me – the Devils finally had a podcast.

I had railed for years that the team needed one, that (for a while there) the only fan podcast we had was a dour, unfunny slog – such nabobs of negativity that Danny had actually stopped appearing on it – and that other teams were starting up their own in-house shows and goddammit, we should do that.

I had been reluctantly toying with the idea of watching a hockey game since the end of the preseason a few weeks before, in no small part because I had forgotten to turn off my recurring billing for NHLTV and they had already charged me for the first month of the season. I was about as far from hockey as I had ever been in my adult life. I vaguely knew the Devils had gotten the #1 pick in the draft, but on that day in October I couldn’t have told you Nico Hischier’s name if my life depended on it. I didn’t know if I wanted to watch a game or not. I certainly didn’t want to go to one.

But a podcast! I love podcasts. I’m a veteran of three of them – my first, in fact, was a Chelsea podcast I did with Danny and our friend Tim. And the Devils podcast I’d been demanding for years to boot. I couldn’t very well not give it a cursory listen, at the very least.

I was sitting at my dining room table working, with my phone connected to the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter. I tapped through the menus on Downcast until I found it – the New Jersey Devils All-Access Podcast – and started streaming the most recent episode.

The podcast started and the opening bars of “45” came out of my little gray speaker and I burst out crying.

I gripped the edge of the table – a familiar move, the last two years – tried to calm down, and thought, “of COURSE that’s the fucking theme music.”

The Devils had changed their goal music to Howl, another Gaslight Anthem track, a few years before – a change I liked – and it made sense that they’d stick with TGA for the podcast. There are worse things, certainly, than associating your team with a beloved local band. At that moment, though, it was just about the most awful thing in the world.

Once I let go of the table I pawed for my phone and stopped the player, then sat there trying to take deep breaths for a while.

It occurred to me that in addition to not watching a hockey game since Danny had died I hadn’t once listened to Handwritten either.

I got my breathing and my heartrate under control and looked down at my phone. The details of the show were still up on the screen: “Episode 3: The Return of Chico Resch.”

One of the things I occasionally quip – and always mean seriously – is that when the universe is telling you something, you have to listen.

Like pretty much every Devils fan, I would jump in front of a train for Chico Resch. He’s the wacky uncle to all of us and is maybe the most beloved figure in the entire organization. (Martin Brodeur is a lot of things, but I don’t know that “lovable” is one of them.) It was a legitimately sad day when he left the broadcast booth, like when that wacky uncle moves away and doesn’t have Facebook to keep in touch because, well, he’s your wacky uncle and folks of that generation are not great Facebook users.

A Devils podcast, led off by the Gaslight Anthem, with “the return of Chico Resch” (whatever that meant) was definitely the universe trying to tell me something. Specifically, it was telling me to take some more deep breaths, calm down dammit, and spend half an hour listening to this podcast.

I turned it back on and two voices came on, a man and a woman doing podcast intro banter, talking about their new show and how things were starting out. I believe there was an early mention of the now-ongoing regular fries vs. sweet potato fries debate.

I distinctly remember thinking that Amanda Stein had the most Canadian voice I’d ever heard.

I had gotten up from the dining room table and was busying myself in the kitchen while listening, emptying the dishwasher and shit whatnot, repeatedly thinking, “this is really good. It’s rough and new, but it’s really good.” Then the interview with Chico came on and as soon as I heard his voice I actually stopped what I was doing and smiled. Chico. God it was good to hear him again.

Hearing Chico Resch made me think of Danny and not be sad for the first time since I’d gotten the phone call from Steph.

And I would be able to hear him more! The “return” the title talked about was that he was going to be doing color on the Devils’ radio broadcasts. That alone made my heart leap a little bit, the chance to hear Chico on the regular. But that wasn’t even all. He was going to join Twitter! CHICO RESCH WAS GOING TO BE ON TWITTER! I was going to have regular access to his thoughts! CHICO ON TWITTER!

Sometimes the universe tries to tell you things. And then sometimes the universe looks at you, and raises its eyebrows in that “seriously, man, come ON” look and demands you get with the goddamn program.

The show ended and I subscribed to it in Downcast.

I looked at the schedule and saw that the Devils would be playing the Capitals the next night.

I said out loud to my empty kitchen, “okay, fine, I’ll watch.”

The next night after work I sat in front of the TV, fired up my NHL app, and watched the Devils lose to the Caps 5-2. Again.

***

After I watched the game I set up a “Devils” column in Tweetdeck. I added Chico to it first. I also added Amanda and Arda, the nice folks from the podcast. I added a couple players, the team accounts, some reporters.

It was slow – I was listening to a podcast, reading some stuff on Twitter, and had watched a single game – but hockey was something I could bear to think about again. I started paying a little more attention to r/Devils. Eventually I started joining in on game threads and other discussions.

I watched another game the next week, and another and another.

Watching those Devils games, those early ones back in October, was hard. After every memorable play, good and bad, for the first few weeks I would pick up my phone every time. The muscle memory was still there – something would happen on the ice, and I’d pick up my phone to text Danny something stupid about it.

Four months later I don’t pick up the phone anymore, but I do still think about it. Every time. I compose the text in my head and think about his reaction before I can remember there won’t be one, but at least I don’t pick up the phone anymore. Most of the time, at least. Every now and then the thought and the joke plow through everything and I find myself holding the phone and I end up texting our friend Tom, also a Devils fan, who I hope is watching the game. Sometimes he is and we have a nice back-and-forth.

Tom is another one who knows the game way better than I ever will. I was always a Devils fan more than I was necessarily a hockey fan, but I’m trying to learn a little now. I even read Wyshynski’s loathsome book about hockey strategy and managed to learn a few things from it (the ratio of time spent learning to time spent muttering “oh Jesus Christ” was highly unfavorable). I wish I had learned before – I wish just once I could have had a conversation with Danny about hockey that was close to his level – and the irony of finally doing that now is, believe me, really, really not lost on me. But I’m learning anyway.

***

For that first month or two, the thought of going to an actual game never crossed my mind. I could watch on TV, and I was participating more and more in the discussions on the Devils subreddit, but actually going up to the Rock was still a bridge too far. Being there, I was convinced, would be somehow “different” in some way I very carefully refused to define.

I stuck by that until I want to say sometime in early December, when out of nowhere I texted Tom, “we should find a Devils game to go to.”

I’m not entirely sure why I did that, and I don’t recall any specific moment of breakthrough or catharsis where I thought, “you know what, I think I’d be okay now to go to a Devils game, let’s round up the boys.”

Even still, before I knew it I was scrolling through the Devils’ schedule and I sent to Tom, “how about Devils-Bruins on 2/11?”

What the hell was I doing? I was still terrified of the thought of going to the Rock. It was like my fingers had a mind of my own, or I’d been infected by Snow Crash, or I’d finally had the psychotic break a lot of those Carol Marcus types had assumed was coming sooner or later. Why was I picking out dates for me and Tom to go to a game? It was madness.

Then I started texting OTHER people to see if THEY wanted to go to the game with us. Other friends of mine who were Devils fans. A friend who is a Bruins fan. I told Tom to see if any of HIS friends wanted to join us.

This one, at least, I knew what was happening: if I was going to plunge headlong into danger (a la a certain captain) I would surround myself with friends in an attempt to…lessen the blow? Provide moral support? Pick me up if I walked into the Rock and fainted? All of the above? Possibly.

The thing had gotten away from me now, though. Invites were flying all over the eastern seaboard. And if we’re being honest – and I hope I am, at least, it’s always a little dicey but that IS the idea – ever since we agreed to it I have been dreading going to this game tomorrow.

Not just dreading, though. I mean, definitely dreading, yes. I have no idea how I’m going to react when I walk into that arena tomorrow, when I first see the ice and the folks in their jerseys. There is a nonzero chance I’m going to have a total fucking meltdown when I get there.

You know what I’m really dreading, though? I’m dreading buying coffee. The thought of going to get one, for some reason, is almost as scary as actual things like being there for the first time without my friend. This is the thing I’m fixating on. The goddamn coffee cup. I recognize this is my brain doing gymnastics to try and get me to avoid thinking about actual things that are painful but COME ON: the coffee cup? I really feel like a brain that can do the things mine can should come up with a more interesting effort than that.

But I’m not only dreading it. For all the parts of my brain that are Kirk in his quarters trying to shut out everything that’s happened, still refusing to deal with death, there is another part that is Kirk on the bridge with Bones and Carol, searching for new life in the sunrise, finally dealing with death the only way we can that actually works: with other people propping him up.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I know what I hope will happen. I’m going to walk into that arena with all the other people who came a long way to sit and be together, and hope I hear that Gaslight Anthem song, think of my friend, and feel young again.

JLK

Advertisements

Posted in Life, Sports | Tagged: , , | Leave a Comment »

All-Time Top 20 Favorite Movies, #6: You call this archaeology?

Posted by kozemp on February 4, 2013

indy poster

Here’s the thing about this one:

This is the only time Indiana Jones appears on this list.

Yeah, I did that.

When I was making up this list, I thought about this one longer than any other choice, and eventually it came down to this: I considered, “between Raiders and Last Crusade, if I could only watch one of these movies for the rest of my life, which would it be?”

On that score it was a pretty easy choice to make.

Yeah, Raiders is probably the better movie. Like 96% probably. Raiders is the more important movie. Raiders is, and we’re getting into some shaky territory here, probably the more “adult” movie.

I like Last Crusade more.

I have seen Last Crusade, and this is not an exaggeration here, hundreds of times. Literally hundreds. When I was a kid, my sister and I watched it a couple times a week for a year or two straight. Watching it a few days ago for this – more than 20 years and hundreds of viewings since the first time – I still caught something in it I’d never noticed before. Three things, actually. I have spent, by a crude approximation, three weeks of my life watching this movie. And I still found something new in it.

I love Raiders of the Lost Ark, and thankfully I do not have to make actual decisions on which one of these two films I will watch exclusively until the end of time (inasmuch as I still plan to live forever), but Last Crusade evokes a childlike glee in me that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

What did I find, you ask? Three things, before I stopped writing them down, at least.

One, and this is surprisingly boneheaded of me to have missed all these years, is the cup/grail imagery during the introductory scene with Indy and Donovan. There’s one bit where Indy is talking about the legend and the camera just randomly cuts to Donovan pouring champagne into tall, fluted glasses. It is, to say the least, not particularly subtle. I don’t know how I’ve missed it.

Two, while I was watching that entire conversation I thought that it was, all things considered, about as enjoyable an exposition dump as you can possibly get in a movie. But then it ends when Donovan says, “your father is the man who’s disappeared.” And I’m like, wait a fucking minute, why didn’t you LEAD with that? Instead of five minutes of grail lore wankery, maybe you should have entered the room with, “Dr. Jones, I’m sorry to inform you that your father has disappeared. Let me explain how.”

Yes, I realize that isn’t necessarily as interesting a movie scene, but still. As a dramatic turning point it’s kind of a dick move.
indy 2

Third, in the first Red Line Scene – aka The Best Parts of Any Indy Movie – we are given an overlaid montage of Indy reading and studying his father’s diary. If you look closely at the background images, which I understand is difficult when you are captivated by the Red Line, you can see that basically the entire movie is foreshadowed there. The library, the canyon, the temple, the whole bit. The whole movie. None of which Indy ever recognizes when he comes across them. When his father tells him that they have to go to Berlin to get the diary, Indy has no idea why, even though he spent an entire transatlantic flight at 1938 speeds studying the damn thing.

I thought, why not just have him read Sports Illustrated?

I talked at length on the Indy episode of the podcast about why this movie is so great, so I don’t think I need to go into too much detail here. It ticks all the boxes, to say the least. Motivated characters? Duh. Loving attention paid to supporting cast? “That car belonged to my brother in law.” Great script? “That car belonged to my brother in law.”

Admittedly it’s a “do more with more” sort of movie than do less with more, but look what that gets you! While some might argue that there are movies that have better individual action scenes than Last Crusade – those people would be wrong, but the argument exists – there is not a movie that has a COLLECTION of action sequences as exceptional as this one. The circus train. Venice. The motorcycle chase. The airplane. A lesser movie would use one of these scenes as a grand finale. This one leaves them laying around like flip flops on the back porch. THIS movie’s signature set piece is the tank chase that for my money is still the greatest single action scene ever filmed. Seriously. If you haven’t watched it in a while, go check it out. It will blow your mind. (I highly recommend the new Blu-Ray set, which has picture quality that will make you weep.)

Really, though, a big reason I love this movie is because Indiana Jones is a foundational figure in what we’ll call for the sake of discussion my somewhat unique psychopathology. I grew up with movies, and books, and stories. I’ve mentioned it here before – I read a lot and have since I was able to read at an age I will not reveal since most people wouldn’t believe it anyway. I was a weird, socially-anxious, introverted kid who preferred reading to going outside, and I stayed that way until basically… <checks calendar> eight seconds ago.

So I read books. And though my father, as we have repeatedly said, had no idea what constituted age-appropriate movies he and my mother were, for reasons that have never been successfully explained to me, extraordinarily strict about what I was allowed to watch on television. The Terminator when it first came out on VHS? Just fine. (I was seven.) Alf? Not so much. Literally, until I was about 12 years old, the only things I was allowed to watch on TV were sports and Star Trek.

Sports.

And Star Trek.

I’ll pause for a moment to let THAT sink in.

indy 3

I read a lot of books and watched a lot of movies. A LOT of books and a LOT of movies. I was the youngest person ever to get an adult library card at Northeast Regional (I was, again, seven.) My dad had memberships at every video store within 5 miles of here – which 25 years ago was about a hundred – and blew through tapes like nobody’s business.

Then at 11 I got started in the theatre and any hope of me being a normal person went up in smoke.

I am, at a very basic level, not really equipped to deal with… you know… life. So literature, books, movies, plays, however you want to slice it, became the way I processed a world I didn’t (and for the most part still don’t) understand. And being a brainy, introverted kid (and adult) I gravitated toward brainy, introverted characters who would come out of their shell now and then and do amazing things: Jean-Luc Picard. John Crichton. The Doctor.*

And Indiana Jones; above all of them, Indiana Jones: a shy, withdrawn college professor who turns into a superhero and saves the world when he puts on a hat.

God, I wish I could pull off that hat.

JLK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*And, for different reasons, Superman, but that’s another show.

Posted in movies | Tagged: , , , | 1 Comment »