He was a little guy with a news stand outside a comedy club in San Francisco. One of those people you immediately recognize as not terrifically educated, but extremely wise. He confronted the rockstar popular young comedian, Robin Williams, as he went in to do a show that would be taped for broadcast on HBO. As he tried to sell Mr. Williams a paper, he began commenting on his appearance. There were solicitous comments about his health and spirit. He advised, "Joke them if they can't take a fuck," before sending him in for his performance with the caution, "You take care of yourself, Mr. Williams."
Robin Williams was analyzed, diagnosed and prescribed, powerfully, by the little news stand guy. Who was played by Robin Williams.
That HBO special was the first time I ever saw Robin Williams in his free and natural habitat. I couldn't look away. I also couldn't stop hurting, both sides aching from the constant, deep laughter that rolled on, unabated, for the 90 minute special.
I reacted to Robin Williams that way every time I witnessed the spectacle of his performance of standup comedy.
I often found myself reacting to him that way on screen. Except when he tore my heart out. Sometimes the humor and the pathos fell so hard on one anothers' heels that it was hard to recognize when and where one had stopped and the other began. Just like life.
I knew he struggled with life. He had several stops in rehab to deal with multiple issues. Hell, he partied with Belushi and all of his contemporaries in the 70's California comedy explosion. Just like I thought I wanted to. He talked with David Letterman after the fact several times, each one, proclaiming that he was clean and doing better. The truth may have been that he was attempting to self-medicate for the hurt and darkness he carried.
Does comedy attract people trying to deal with themselves by baring all and making light of it, or does comedy take people into those places? I don't have any idea, but it seems to happen over and over and over again. I haven't done any research, but I bet that as many comedians have died at their own hand, of overdose or otherwise, as rock musicians. Ah, the glamor!
But let's be honest here for a moment. Haven't we all thought at one moment or another about not being here? I'm not talking about sitting down at the table with a gun or anything like that. But haven't we imagined what it would be like not to be in the circumstances of the moment? Fortunately, most of us can still recognize a reason somewhere to go on.
Either that, or we're too afraid of how we might wind up if the attempt went awry.
So Monday, he died. The funniest man I ever saw. They said he had a belt around his neck. They said he had money trouble. They said he had fallen off the wagon again, although his wife said no. She said he had been diagnosed with early stage Parkinson's, leaving him with the prospect of losing control of his body and his speech, both so instrumental to his art. We have to know all that stuff. All that stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with the tragedy of a supremely gifted man finding himself with no hope left whatsoever.
He knew, all those years ago on the HBO special, that he needed someone to tell him, "You take care of yourself, Mr. Williams." For whatever reason, he couldn't hear that voice anymore on Sunday night.
It is hard for me to imagine that that face and voice, so prominent in my life for the last almost 40 years, won't be back in the next movie or tv appearance or comedy special, but I'm just a fan. There are three people for whom he was Dad, and another for whom he was husband, and I can't begin to imagine their loss and hurt.
It is all just so heartbreaking. And there's nothing funny about it.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Saturday, June 07, 2014
Popeye
Don Zimmer died this week. He was one of those characters that are often found associated with baseball. I never knew him as a player. He was a teammate of Jackie Robinson in Brooklyn, but by the time he got to the bigs, he had already suffered a beaning in the minors. Zimmer's injury was serious enough that had to have brain surgery, and a plate put into his head. Many writers cite Zimmer's beaning as the turning point that led to batting helmets becoming mandatory. It was a good move for baseball, but too late for Zimmer, as he was never the same player he had been before.
But his diminished playing skills probably sped up the clock on Zim's coaching and managerial career. He became a valued instructor. He coached in the minors before moving up to the Expos and Padres. Then, the offer to manage came. He started with the lowly Padres in 1972, but that didn't go well or last long. He joined Darrell Johnson's coaching staff in Boston for the '74 season. He was there in 1975 when Rice and Lynn were rookies, Yaz was the star, Dewey Evans was playing Hall of Fame caliber rightfield, El Tiante was spinning on the mound, and for the first time since '67, the Sox were winners. They played the Big Red Machine in one of the truly epic World Series of all time.
Don Zimmer managed perhaps the best Red Sox team between Bill Corrigan and Tito Francona in 1978. They should have won the American League East that year. They would have won the AL East that year, if not for one Bucky F. Dent. There's a long drive to left...Yastrzemski's not going to get it...It's a home run!
Zimmer later had a stop with the other sad sack franchise of Major League Baseball, the Chicago Cubs. Was it an accident that the Red Sox and Cubs each had success and won under Popeye? (Zim had many nicknames, but when he got mad and argued with umpires, his eyes would bug out, he would turn red, and he looked like Popeye) Was it an accident that the Yankees last dynasty was guided by the totally unflappable Joe Torre and his bench coach/Yoda, Don Zimmer? No. There are no accidents. Don Zimmer knew the game. Don Zimmer taught the game. Don Zimmer managed the game. And on the rare occasions that his players were anywhere near good, he won the game.
Zim was what is called a "Baseball Lifer." For crying out loud, he married his beloved Soot (Carol Jean), whom he started dating in 10th Grade, in 1951, at home plate, before an Elmira minor league game. She was by his side when he died on Wednesday. His son, Tom, is a scout for the Giants. The Zimmers also have a daughter, Donna, and four grandchildren.
Starting late in his tenure coaching with Torre and the Yankees, Don Zimmer began wearing a uniform bearing the number of years he had been in the game. His last stop was as an instructor and advisor with the Tampa Bay Rays. His uniform this year carried the number 66.
Zim isn't in the Hall of Fame. But he managed, coached and taught the game to a lot of men who are. And several of them have come forward this week to say that without Don Zimmer, they might not be there, either.
And the game certainly would not have been as much fun, had Zip Zimmer not been there.
But his diminished playing skills probably sped up the clock on Zim's coaching and managerial career. He became a valued instructor. He coached in the minors before moving up to the Expos and Padres. Then, the offer to manage came. He started with the lowly Padres in 1972, but that didn't go well or last long. He joined Darrell Johnson's coaching staff in Boston for the '74 season. He was there in 1975 when Rice and Lynn were rookies, Yaz was the star, Dewey Evans was playing Hall of Fame caliber rightfield, El Tiante was spinning on the mound, and for the first time since '67, the Sox were winners. They played the Big Red Machine in one of the truly epic World Series of all time.
Don Zimmer managed perhaps the best Red Sox team between Bill Corrigan and Tito Francona in 1978. They should have won the American League East that year. They would have won the AL East that year, if not for one Bucky F. Dent. There's a long drive to left...Yastrzemski's not going to get it...It's a home run!
Zimmer later had a stop with the other sad sack franchise of Major League Baseball, the Chicago Cubs. Was it an accident that the Red Sox and Cubs each had success and won under Popeye? (Zim had many nicknames, but when he got mad and argued with umpires, his eyes would bug out, he would turn red, and he looked like Popeye) Was it an accident that the Yankees last dynasty was guided by the totally unflappable Joe Torre and his bench coach/Yoda, Don Zimmer? No. There are no accidents. Don Zimmer knew the game. Don Zimmer taught the game. Don Zimmer managed the game. And on the rare occasions that his players were anywhere near good, he won the game.
Zim was what is called a "Baseball Lifer." For crying out loud, he married his beloved Soot (Carol Jean), whom he started dating in 10th Grade, in 1951, at home plate, before an Elmira minor league game. She was by his side when he died on Wednesday. His son, Tom, is a scout for the Giants. The Zimmers also have a daughter, Donna, and four grandchildren.
Starting late in his tenure coaching with Torre and the Yankees, Don Zimmer began wearing a uniform bearing the number of years he had been in the game. His last stop was as an instructor and advisor with the Tampa Bay Rays. His uniform this year carried the number 66.
Zim isn't in the Hall of Fame. But he managed, coached and taught the game to a lot of men who are. And several of them have come forward this week to say that without Don Zimmer, they might not be there, either.
And the game certainly would not have been as much fun, had Zip Zimmer not been there.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
A Very Ugly Place Indeed
The world can seem a not very pretty place these days. No reflection (especially on Earth Day) on the spectacular show that nature stages every Spring. Rather, it has to do with the way the top of the food chain is trashing the place.
Politically, for just a couple of examples, the local solons continue their process of mucking up the school situation in our fair metroplex. You don't want your kids in school with mine, and I don't want mine in school with yours. I don't want to pay for your kids, and you don't want to pay for mine. Or yours. And so the stomach turns. Then there are the Feds, who have their hands full with a petty thief out West who wants to make himself out the Great American Patriot. He isn't Robin Hood, unless Robin's story got backward somewhere along the line. I suspect that the various agencies are a bit anxious about another Waco or Ruby Ridge breaking out. To me, it's time to give this clown a date certain to pay his bills, or his property gets seized. No more ifs, ands, or Fox News butts.
Spiritually, if there still is such a thing that can be taken seriously, the church continues in the throes of an inability to stand up for what's right. Some of those in positions that they feel requires them to make "bold" pronouncements on How Things Should Be, tell everyone else-who are chastised for calling one another names-that if they weren't so stupid, they could see the damage the debate is doing to the church, and if they were only as "holy" as those making the pronouncement they wouldn't be hung up on little things like right and wrong. In the church.
Which explains the church's lack of credibility on anything that matters.
The debate isn't doing the damage. The damage is the result of milquetoast leadership that can't find a position with both hands, and doesn't have the courage to do anything that's right if it's going to endanger the job, or the fantasy of episcopal election, or becoming a unicorn herder, or whatever.
While it would be easy to pile log on log of the conflagration, I'd suggest a couple of little bumps on the proverbial road to fake hell. First, something possessed Rupert Murdoch to put Neil DeGrasse Tyson on television for an hour a week to tell some truth. Yes, Rupert Murdoch. Master of Faux News. Hacker of murder victims' families' cell phones. Rupert Freaking Murdoch! Dr. Tyson is the preeminent spokesperson for education, intelligence, integrity and honesty in what passes for our current public discourse. Watch Cosmos. Feel better about doing your own thinking.
Second, at the risk of appearing immodest, opt out. Ditch what's killing you. Stop wasting your life if what you're doing is worthless or doesn't lead to your bliss, in the Joseph Campbell sense. I have found salvation in working with special needs teenagers. This work makes a real, tangible difference in their lives every day.
If you trusted people with your life, and subsequently discovered that you had been deceived by deceivers and are somewhere between spinning your wheels, murder, or suicide, take the reigns back. You do not owe liars your life.
Remember your dreams. Find the place to make a difference. Change the world.
It can still be done!
And then the world starts to look like a more beautiful place again.
Politically, for just a couple of examples, the local solons continue their process of mucking up the school situation in our fair metroplex. You don't want your kids in school with mine, and I don't want mine in school with yours. I don't want to pay for your kids, and you don't want to pay for mine. Or yours. And so the stomach turns. Then there are the Feds, who have their hands full with a petty thief out West who wants to make himself out the Great American Patriot. He isn't Robin Hood, unless Robin's story got backward somewhere along the line. I suspect that the various agencies are a bit anxious about another Waco or Ruby Ridge breaking out. To me, it's time to give this clown a date certain to pay his bills, or his property gets seized. No more ifs, ands, or Fox News butts.
Spiritually, if there still is such a thing that can be taken seriously, the church continues in the throes of an inability to stand up for what's right. Some of those in positions that they feel requires them to make "bold" pronouncements on How Things Should Be, tell everyone else-who are chastised for calling one another names-that if they weren't so stupid, they could see the damage the debate is doing to the church, and if they were only as "holy" as those making the pronouncement they wouldn't be hung up on little things like right and wrong. In the church.
Which explains the church's lack of credibility on anything that matters.
The debate isn't doing the damage. The damage is the result of milquetoast leadership that can't find a position with both hands, and doesn't have the courage to do anything that's right if it's going to endanger the job, or the fantasy of episcopal election, or becoming a unicorn herder, or whatever.
While it would be easy to pile log on log of the conflagration, I'd suggest a couple of little bumps on the proverbial road to fake hell. First, something possessed Rupert Murdoch to put Neil DeGrasse Tyson on television for an hour a week to tell some truth. Yes, Rupert Murdoch. Master of Faux News. Hacker of murder victims' families' cell phones. Rupert Freaking Murdoch! Dr. Tyson is the preeminent spokesperson for education, intelligence, integrity and honesty in what passes for our current public discourse. Watch Cosmos. Feel better about doing your own thinking.
Second, at the risk of appearing immodest, opt out. Ditch what's killing you. Stop wasting your life if what you're doing is worthless or doesn't lead to your bliss, in the Joseph Campbell sense. I have found salvation in working with special needs teenagers. This work makes a real, tangible difference in their lives every day.
If you trusted people with your life, and subsequently discovered that you had been deceived by deceivers and are somewhere between spinning your wheels, murder, or suicide, take the reigns back. You do not owe liars your life.
Remember your dreams. Find the place to make a difference. Change the world.
It can still be done!
And then the world starts to look like a more beautiful place again.
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