On the Tenth Anniversary

When I was five, my mother married my stepfather, John, a quiet, artistic man. The first man she’d dated that I hadn’t chased out of the house.

I sometimes look at skittish dogs and I smile and hold their gaze. They sense they can trust me; I love them just because, even though I don’t know them. They come over and let me pet them. I think John had this same animal ken with me; a defensive, hard little kid.

That first week we started our new family unit, I climbed into his lap in our new house and asked:

“What do I call you?”

“Whatever feels right to you,” he responded in his even tone.

“OK. I’ll call you dad.” I scooted off to play with my toy cars

My mom tells me she saw his eyes well up before he went to make a ham sandwich.

John had his office in the basement of that house where we would grow up. He’d stand at his drafting table late into the night pasting up ads and product campaigns the old fashioned way.

He was always creating. I’d find him typing away at our brand new Commodore 64. Or at his workbench in the garage. His work always had a certain wry sense of humor. Once he decided to make a shrine to the ham sandwich. For years, an embalmed bun with meat sat in an airtight, glass-fronted, wooden box in a place of honor in the living room.

From John I learned my craft. I learned to sit in a room full of people and watch them reveal themselves. I learned the value of the well-placed witty remark. I learned not to give my dignity away by writing “please love me” letters to the boy who’d broken my heart one summer.

Though it’s technically my sister’s, I currently have custody of what I consider to be one of his greatest works. A monument to his life philosophy.

“What the heck is that?” Is the most common reaction it elicits followed by “Why do you have a giant, white painting?”

Mom was creating a white and off-white living room and wanted a painting to match. So John, a classically trained artist, finished painting the fireplace mantle and took the house paints into the garage. He laid a big, old, much-painted canvas on the floor, set his beer can on it and slapped interior semi-gloss all over it.

“It matches,” he told her as he hung it in the living room the next day. She thought it very avant garde.

He had a way of chuckling under his breath. I know in his way he teased any of us who took it seriously. Trying to understand the painting was like trying to understand him. Was it full of serious content or a joke?

It’s only the people who bother to look, who spend time with it, that begin to see everything. There are tones in the white, textures. Some tell me they see faces, some see city skylines. And they are all there. All that and less.

I usually just let it ride when someone asks me about the painting. Let them come to their own conclusions. That’s what John did. I’m sure he felt criticism of it only belied the artistic ignorance of the speaker. Or their pretentiousness. But sometimes, when comments feel derisive, they hook me and then I play the death card.

“My step-dad painted it," I explain, "…before he died.”

Then the critic squirms: the uncomfortable shifts, the backpedaling, the apologies. It makes me laugh when they then come up with an ad hoc compliment. I think John would laugh too. But then I think maybe he knew it was really about nothing, a giant white painting, no need to compliment or analyze. Maybe he’d be laughing at me for caring so much. Maybe it was the joke he played on all of us.

Of the three of us I was the only child not his blood. Yet in some ways I feel I got the best of him. My sister whom he had with my mom was just a little kid. I’m not sure if he knew how to relate to my brother whom he brought from his first marriage. I was new to him and I’d like to think he recognized a kindred spirit. Yet in death, I am the one with the least claim on him. People don’t get it. They say he was just my step-dad so of course my brother and sister are entitled to more. Not that he had much to leave us. But he shaped such a large part of who I am. He was an equal parent to me just like my own father or my mother.

“Yeah but you still have a dad, they don’t,” is the counter.

Of course that’s true. But does that lessen my loss?

How can we determine who is entitled to grieve the most?

Fortunately, that is a question most dealt without outside our family. Or in my own heart. Among my siblings, we never use the words step or half. For now, I study the painting until my sister gets a permanent home or for as long as she lets me keep it. My favorite part is the ring from his beer can. I trace my fingers around the circle raised in the paint wondering if he sees me and still laughs with that under-toned chuckle. The one I hear in my brother’s voice now.

I can’t believe it’s been ten years. I miss you, dad.

Bull in a China Shop

“Mercury is in retrograde,” an older, wiser friend explained to me. “Everything about communication goes in the crapper when that happens.”

I was talking to her about a friend I’d managed to offend the day before. The friend had come to me for some bolstering and instead of listening for what she needed from me, I launched into my counselor/fix-it mode. Great when someone asks for advice. Not so great when all someone needs is a hug.

“I don’t know if you believe in that stuff or not,” she continued, peering at me over her hipster reading glasses. “All is know is over my whole life when things go wrong in communication and friendships it’s turned out that Mercury was in retrograde. Do with that what you will.”
I found my friend and apologized to her for bulldozing her over with advice.

I hate to chalk miscommunications up to planetary alignment. That takes the responsibility out of speaking. But dang if Mercury isn’t retrograding all over my world right now.

I’m the first to admit I shoot my mouth off and am sometimes naive of the consequences. My dad always says that discretion is the better part of valor. An admirable and elegant statement and code of conduct. I try it sometimes. You probably wouldn’t know it.

The week wasn’t even over before a miscommunication with another friend spiraled out of control and I was hurt. Now when this happens I try to chill and never react in anger because I know it never turns out well. With time, things usually shift. My personal kaleidoscope view of life tumbles on itself and things have a different light. As mom says: let the English spin off the ball.

But no. I shot my mouth off. Got more caught up in defending my position that trying to understand hers. The parents’ voices in my head said “you’ll regret this later.” I think Mercury stuffed plugs in my ears. Like that bull in the china shop, I’d charged ahead, breaking lines of communication and threads of trust along the way. By forcing my position on my friend, I’d put the responsibility to mend the rift on her.

Waking up at three this morning from nightmares about drowning with no one to throw me a lifeline, it dawned on me that her upset was the mirror image of mine and suddenly I got what hurt she was going through because I was there too. And worse, I got that I caused it. Thankfully, I found a big mop of apology to clean up my mess.

Despite a few days of stomach knots, I can’t really say I regret it all. First because I don’t believe regret is a useful concept. Second, lessons learned always add value to life and storms weathered strengthen friendships. But I do think that next time I’ll try to take a deep breath and remember mom’s advice: let the English spin off the ball.

On my way out of town today, I stopped by the celestially wise lady’s shop.

“Dude. I’m all for life lessons but when is Mercury rising or whatever it’s supposed to do next?”

“I have no idea,” she told me with a weary eye roll. “But I’ve certainly had better days. I hope it comes out of retrograde soon.”

Ditto, sister.

The Fighting (or Loving) Irish

Happy Saint Pat’s to all. And I do mean all.

I sent out an email earlier today wishing my friends a happy day, Erin go bragh and all that. Doesn’t everyone love a happy wish and a pinch of green? Apparently not.

I got a response back from a friend of a friend ranting about how he can’t stand being wished Happy St. Pat’s by all us American posers. After all he’s been to Belfast and though he’s not Irish, that trip makes him more Irish than many of us St. Pat’s well wishers.

“And guess what?” He says, “If you were born in America, you're not Irish, you're fucking American. Deal with it.”

Wow.

Hater.

Well, I tell you what, angry man. You can kiss my fat Irish-American arse.

I have been to my ancestral home in County Wicklow and studied dusty old books charting my family tree. In a small church, my aunt, the priest and I drank tea and searched though centuries-old looping Latin calligraphy. If we want to get into a dick waving contest, I'm pretty damn sure I've spent more time wandering Irish byways than you have. And I don’t even have a dick. Sure, I'll always be an outsider to the actual experience of being Irish. But I still seek to understand it as best as I can, given my limited American perspective.

Of course I'm American. But I'm proud of my Irish roots. Calling on our roots is the only way we Americans have of differentiating and identifying ourselves, just as Europeans might say what town they're from or perhaps as certain American populations distinguish themselves with hyphens. I would challenge the hater in question to go tell African-Americans to get over the fact that they weren't born in Nairobi and see how well that goes over.

Now I grant you, people claiming Irish heritage here are often ignorant of their roots or understand only glamorized, green beer versions of the hearty souls we come from. In years past, the majority of the IRA’s funding came from Irish-Americans who didn’t understand the political balance there but gave money for guns because they’d been romanced by the notion of a free Ireland and damn the British Oppressors. Like most of this world, it’s more complicated than that. And in truth, the Irish past is more “Angela’s Ashes” than “The Quiet Man” to be sure. By claiming my Irishness I’m not saying I want to live that past. Nor am I saying things are all hunky dory now. When I last visited Clare Island off the coast of County Mayo, a friend took me to a field where a lone caravan stood. One man lived here now.

“Before the famines, a village of two thousand was here,” she told me.

Maybe it’s that tragic, melancholic beauty we love. Maybe it’s the wild survivor spirit in the face of death, disease and invaders. I don’t know. But I do make an effort to look for the answers. Am I special for this? No. But I am Irish-American.

And even if I weren’t, wishing someone Happy St. Pat's is just a way of spreading happiness. Just like saying "Merry Christmas." No, I'm not Christian but it's what you say close to December 25th that's just another way of saying "hey I care about you and I hope you are well and happy right now."

I know, I know, sometimes it’s hard when people are nice to you for no reason and wish you well. Must be tough. But you have a choice to hear the friendly sentiment behind that, or be annoyed by it. If you’re one of these, remind me not to wish you a happy birthday or toss off a simple “have a nice day” when I see you.

However, if you decide you want to smile and raise a pint, knock yourself out. Even if you go so far as to claim Irishness just for today, we won’t begrudge it to you. Call it Irish hospitality

Development: Released

We have nothing to complain about. I mean as a TV watching nation. Everything on the air is just fine.

Isn’t it?

I’ve grown up as a TV viewer to the popular refrain: There’s nothing on. I assumed that to mean nothing of wit, originality or substance. But now I am confused. America, to which nothing are you referring?

You see, we (Hollywood) gave you Arrested Development. This show has to be the best network comedy since Seinfeld. It’s well-crafted, witty, dark, silly, timely, self-deprecating, award-winning, critically acclaimed…And no one’s watching.

I hate to underestimate our collective national intelligence but you do need to pay attention to get it. I’ll give you that if you just tune in out of the blue you might not know what’s going on, how these people are related or why it’s hilarious that a character just pulled a bizarre chicken dance to tease another character. It’s a self-referential show that is continuously building. You need to pay attention. And if you do you are vastly rewarded.

I occasionally try to watch the big network shows these days. I honestly can’t. Well I can but it’s more of a train wreck fascination. As I watch the “characters” spell things out for the viewers along the lines of:
Husband: I’m mad at you.
Wife: Why?
Husband: Because you ruined my car.
Wife: Well you were driving me crazy.
Cue laugh track.

What? I have to turn it off and stare at a plant just to reclaim my eyes and purge my brain.

I understand that humor, like everything else, it subjective. But America, come on!

My father and I had a political debate recently where I got up on my liberal high horse and spouted on about why W should not have been reelected.

“It makes no sense, I know no one that voted for him. How did it happen?”

He proceeded to inform me that the bubble of Hollywood does not represent the country and who did a bunch of actors think they were deciding how things should be run. Maybe he’s right. We must be seriously out of touch. We assume the nation wants television with intelligence, a biting wit, interesting stories and original, off-the-wall yet strangely relatable characters. We give that to the nation and the nation splats it back in our face like a baby flinging the finest stewed organic carrots.

Well don’t worry, America. Here’s your pabulum. Here is more of the programming that makes the rest of the world think we’re a pack of idiots. When I lived in Italy, our top exports there were Baywatch and Small Wonder. The only small wonder is that they haven’t all invaded us already crying “How did you Wal Mart shoppers become the World Super Power?!”

As George Clooney noted in his Oscar speech Hollywood may be out of touch. Like George, I’m fine with this. At least we can imagine a better world, and a better TV show even if the rest of the country would prefer to ignore it. All I can say is if anyone gets voted off the island, I hope it’s us. We can amuse ourselves on the life raft with many more tales involving a stair-car, a banana stand and a hand-eating loose seal.

That's Amore

“A house like this? Oh, say two hundred thousand dollars. Less even.”

Francis Mayes of “Under the Tuscan Sun” authorship was pointing to a slide of a run down Italian farm house. I had gone to see her speak at my small mountain town bookstore. Me and all the other Italo-philes in town with dreams of someday getting our own slice of Tuscan sun.

I was in the midst of house hunting in the mountains but suddenly there was this possibility. Instead of making a practical real estate investment in the little property boom town where I actually lived, I could use that same money – less even – to buy a stone structure in another country where I did not live with no working plumbing, electricity and perhaps not even a road. I was beside myself with excitement.

Having spent junior year abroad many moons ago, I have always been obsessed with getting back to Italy. To live. I have taught Italian. I have compiled an intended coffee table book with my Italy photography and essays on Italian life. When I yell at other LA drivers, it’s in Italian. It just sounds better. Each screenplay I write has references to if not major story arcs in Italy. My weekend treat is to fix myself a latte with my Italian coffee maker and listen to CDs of some of the bands I befriended during my year there. (Amazing how far a smile and an “I’m a DJ from LA” will get you). In short, I’m obsessed and I have been since I was sixteen and first set foot in Italy.

What is it about Italy? Life. They value family and friends over possessions. Art and culture are part of everyday living. The food is amazing, the language is mellifluous, the landscape is breathtaking. Life seems to have more value and richness there.

Several years after that reading of Ms. Mayes’, I own no property in any town and rent a small apartment in the Hollywood hills. But I still think of Italy daily. Is it possible to feel intense homesickness for a place you are not from?

When I saw the KCRW drawing to win tickets to the “Cinema Italian Style” festival at the Egyptian theatre, I entered right away. And I won. I raced into the courtyard of the Egyptian that first night like a starving person to a banquet. Sure I’d get to see some movies, great. But I’d get to be around Italians. Lots of them. For two weeks running. Maybe I’d find a connection, a way back at last to my promised land.

Hearing Italian all around me I squealed and wandered the crowd with a goofy grin on my face. As hoped, the festival had drawn out all the local Italians and other American fools like me. My junior year was brought full circle to me when I ran into a friend who’d been in my dorm that year. He was actually Croatian but close enough. He’d been determined to marry a California girl and get here and so he had.

I’m learning that this town works on attitude and connections. If you pretend you know what you are doing, most people will buy it and if you know the right people, they’ll definitely buy it. When one of the biggest Italian film stars took the red carpet press line, a gasp went up from the girls. He was hot. Un gran bel figo. And married. But I figured it would be cool to meet him, make that connection. And I could, because he had been in a movie by the Big Deal Director. I kicked myself for not having a copy of my latest Italian script with me to hand him.

I marched through the fans right up to him with my hand out. I greeted him in Italian. His face registered “Please don’t hurt me, tall American” until I dropped The Director’s name. Suddenly, this Italian God’s eyes brightened, he grasped my hand and said it was lovely to meet me. We laughed about the Director. The God’s wife, who was equally lovely, told me they’d love to have dinner with him. Ever so usefully, I passed the Director’s number along to them. Here I was, in the middle of an international film power connection. I felt so damn smug.

Later, at the after-party, I chatted briefly with the God’s wife again. It was thrilling to just have access to fame simply because I had the right name to drop. I’d met several new Italian friends that night and saw them watch my apparently effortless ease in getting this access.

I found out later that the God and his wife never got around to calling the Director so he wouldn’t know I’d dropped his name. I was hoping they would. I wondered if he’d wonder about me and all the circulating I was doing. Then I realized, only someone who really doesn’t have carte blanche access to such strata of the business would wonder such a thing.

I have a great teacher here who says in the most satisfying stories, often when our protagonist lets go of what she wants, she gets what she needs. In the end, I got just what I needed out of the festival. I saw some truly fabulous new films (Romanzo Criminale, La Bestia nel Cuore, Quando Sei Nato Non Puoi Piu Nasconderti, Ma Quando Arrivano Le Ragazze?, La Vita Che Vorrei) And was reminded again that the nature of film storytelling doesn’t necessarily have to follow the rigid American Structure most of our films adhere to.

More importantly, I have embarked on some new friendships with Italians who share my film dreams. And better yet, they understand a different approach to life and movies that many of my American friends miss. Plus they appreciate my Italian coffee maker.

One of my new friends took me to a dinner last week with other Italians. Of course, they were all wonderful. One diminutive woman with a spunky joie de vivre informed me she knows my very favorite Italian rock star and can introduce me when he’s next in LA. Her husband, an American with an obvious love of all things Italian turned out to be a director. I told him about my latest Italian script idea. “Let’s see it when you’re done. I’d love to shoot something in Italy,” he said. You and me both, amico.

Though I am now further in terms of miles from the place I dream of living, I am feeling more and more that I am just where I need to be. Every night, as I walk my dog and take stock of my day, I greet the moon with a “Ciao, Luna.” I figure if the moon speaks anything, it’s probably Italian.