Joyce Collins, 1929-2007

My grandmother was born on July 25, 1929 to Harry and Grace Boynton in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa. Those who know their history might recognize this was only a few months before the great stock market crash of the same year and the beginning of the Great Depression. As a result, when her brother, Jack, was born a couple of years later, the family had to make some rather difficult choices.

Joyce was sent to live with her Aunt Irene ("Gog") and Uncle ("Poppy") Harold. It is believed that Gog had up to twenty miscarriages during the course of her life and, in fact, had lost two sets of twins. Naturally, she was left without the ability to have children. Gog and Poppy took Joyce in and raised her as their own. Many, myself included, believe my grandmother got the better end of this deal than Jack who stayed with their natural parents. Gog and Poppy were extremely caring and nurturing individuals. And gave her the best life possible during this arduous time in American history.

***

In the early 1950's, Joyce met Dean Collins. They were married for approximately twenty-five years and had two children: Mike, my father, and Tracy, my aunt. Dean left her for what would become his second wife, and while my father was a grown man, Tracy was still a young girl. So, my grandmother became of one of the millions of single mothers during the middle of her life.

Up until July 15th of this year, Tracy had spent every day of her life, minus the occasional vacation and six week marriage, with Joyce. Knowing that life was tough enough for a self-described, "chubby teenage girl," Joyce spent every penny she made on Tracy. Accordingly, Tracy always had the best clothes, make-up, and music of any girl in her school. It was something she gladly did, because as grandma herself admitted, her daughter was the only reason she didn't kill herself after Dean left.

***

Joyce spent much of her life as a book-keeper. But as computers pushed out hand-written ledgers and adding machines, my grandmother decided it was time for career change. She became a in-home care-giver for the infirmed and elderly. By all accounts, this was a profession she should have picked up at early age because all of her clients loved her. Even as her life and health deteriorated, she kept working, giving selflessly when she should have been sipping pina colodas on a beach somewhere.

Part of the reason she never retired was because in 1999 she gained a client very close to her heart: Tracy. My aunt was diagnosed as having MS and my grandmother was the obvious choice to be her caregiver.

But Joyce also worked because she had no other choice. Like millions of Americans, my grandmother was consumed by debt, paying off credit cards with credit cards, taking out as many loans as possible, etc. She had to work to save herself and Tracy.

And never once did she complain or ask for help. In fact, I always got a birthday card with a check. She had survived Dean and she seemed bound and determined to get through this.

***

On July 15, 2007, Tracy called Joyce to check where she was. My grandmother replied that she was out running some errands for Tracy, but would be back in less than twenty minutes. Shortly thereafter, they said they loved each other and hung up.

The coroner believes that my grandmother had an aneurysm, causing her to slump over in her seat and hit a tree head-on with the car. Beginning last year, she started having mini-strokes. The doctors were unwilling to operate because of her age. So, it was thought her time might be limited, but no one expected this. She deserved better.

***

It was widely believed that she never loved again after Dean. But at her funeral, one of the mourners approached me, and identified herself as the daughter of a man I simply knew as Bud. He was ex-CIA, for real. The only thing anyone knew was that he was one of four men sent to the Phillippines in the 1960's, and he was the only one who returned alive. But Bud met my grandmother, long after this was past, and they developed a deep and meaningul friendship. Bud had numerous marriages, and whenever they broke-up, he turned to her.

Bud got cancer and passed away in July of last year. Everyone knew this. What no one knew was that he had asked Joyce to marry him two months prior to that. Her response: "You wouldn't marry me for all of these years, It's too late now." That was her.

***

For various reasons, I really didn't know my grandmother until college. But I loved her. And I hurt in a way now I never would have expected. Life will go on. It'll just be a little less complete.

"I don't think there's any point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually."

--- Pat Moynihan, upon learning of JFK's death.

Thank You David Chase

The last time we physically saw Tony Soprano he was breathing. But the debate among the fans seems to be whether by the time the credits rolled that was still the case. All that I know is that my favorite show is done (for the time being) and I loved every minute of it.

For those of you who didn't see the finale, the last few shots are of several suspicious looking fellows entering a restaurant while Tony, Carmela, and AJ are enjoying a basket of onion rings. One of them gets up to go to the bathroom, another reads the paper, and the last two are at a jukebox. Meadow is outside trying to parallel park and getting rather flustered with how poorly it is going. She is just coming into the restaurant when the screen goes completely to black for a few seconds and then the credits roll.

Now, I really don't want to sit here and bore non-fans with minutiae because there are more universal themes I want to touch on. But based upon certain foreshadowings, occurrences in the last scene, plotlines, and just the overall tone of the show, what the blackness represents is most certainly arguable. And to me that demonstrates why this show was beautiful, intelligent, and a masterpiece.

I would like to think by the end David Chase realized what he had created. It was a family made up by everyone who stayed up all hours of the night watching the box sets, who had friends over Sunday to eat and view, who talked about what was going to happen and what it all meant. But
perhaps most importantly it was made up by all of us who invested ourselves into these characters as if they were our actual loved ones.

And if Chase came to that understanding, maybe he also knew that we were all entitled to write our own ending. Maybe that guy walks out of the bathroom and pops Tony in the temple. Or maybe, like so much of the show, it is smoke-and-mirrors, made to get us thinking about the possibilities which never materialize, and Tony keeps going on and on, like the Journey song playing in the background says. Other than Chase, who really knows? And isn't that really beautiful in its own right?

There are moments in life when imagining what may come beats the resolution. And in fact, can't what actually happens seem somehow less meaningful because any mystery there was is now taken away? I hope maybe this was going through Chase's mind as he penned the final scenes. And that he knew better than to give a definitive ending to a show which was never really about that.

To me the show was art. And like great pieces, some action was visible and obvious. But the real awe-inspiring aspects lay hidden within, waiting to be found. Like a painting, it gave the viewer possibilities, but was unconcerned with always providing answers. For it knew that people had a right to their own dreams and hopes. It knew that it was a starting point to immerse oneself in. And that while truth was reflected in it, it provided a way for people to think about something else besides their shitty lives.

I'll miss it deeply.

A Battle for America's Soul

Many have tried, but none have succeeded. Since 2001, one man has ruled with an iron fist, slaying anyone who might try to rise up and challenge his authority. Who is this modern day King Arthur? He is Takeru "Tsunami" Kobayashi, and, as his nickname suggests, he leaves bodies strewn in his wake when he falls upon the land of Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Held every Fourth of July on Coney Island, the Contest is the Super Bowl of the International Federation of Competitive Eating's season. It is a crowning achievement to win this prestigious event and a source of national pride when the champion heralds from within your borders. And for many years, Americans could walk around with swollen chests knowing that a hero rested within it's borders. And heroes they all were. Men (and I say that word in the manliest of ways) such as Frank "Large" Dellarosa and Mike "The Scholar" Devito, who could average a healthy 20 dogs in 12 minutes.

But then in 1997, we avid followers were given a glimpse of what lay on the Eastern horizon. For it was in that year, the Japanese struck American soil for the second time in the twentieth century, when Hirofumi Nakajima sauntered in and put down 24 and 1/2. An American nightmare was upon us. And we had no idea how frightening it would become.

***

July 4, 2001. An uneasy air hung above the crowd at Coney Island that day. Since Nakajima won in 1997, only once had the winner of the contest come from the land of the sleeping tiger. And in fact the previous year saw a clean sweep of the top three spots by Japanese competitors.
But there was a sense of anxious hope among the Yanks, for Japan had sent a beanpole of a rookie to do business that year. Clearly, it was our time to return to glory. The clock started, and Americans hung on to the edge of their couches with bated breath, waiting to exhale in jubilant exultation. The moment never came.

***

50. This is the number of hotdogs Takeru Kobayashi consumed that July 4th. The closest competitor was 19 behind. America was crushed. Children, and Jesus, wept. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. People asked openly, "With such power as that, how long can this man-beast rule the competitive eating world?" The answer appeared to be for as long as Kobayashi wants.

For the following four years, Kobayashi went unchallenged. Left and right, the bodies of lesser men piled up around his slender frame. He seemed gracious enough, and maybe even a little endearing. I even heard people inquire into whether it was possible for Uncle Sam to perform a little trans-Pacific adoption. Clearly, some Americans had driven themselves to delirium with such traitorous thoughts.

But it was easy to understand why this might be the case. Kobayashi set a pace every year that was quite simply un-human. And many had to wonder why God would chose to let loose a second eating monster on the earth.

So, it was with a "here-we-go-again" attitude that many Americans approached the 2006 Contest. And then something amazing happened.

***

June 2, 2007. A young man from the Land of Fruits and Nuts awoke in his Arizona hotel room. He understood the significance of where he was: the beginning of the long road to redemption. For this was the day of the Southwest Regional of the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. He couldn't help but think back to the events of last year, but he also knew the memories could not overwhelm him or defeat would be certain.

***

July 4, 2006. Another Contest had came and went, and the result was the same as it had been the previous five years: Kobayashi triumphed over all. In fact, he had set a world record by eating 53 and 1/2 hot dogs. Except this time there was a difference. At the end, the Tsunami was little more than a tropical depression, as he nearly collapsed in exhaustion. Rather than winning winning by ten or fifteen, he barely escaped. For Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, hailing from San Jose, California, had gorged himself on 52. The clouds parted from before the sun and hope returned.

***

As Chestnut entered the site of the Southwest Regional, a hush fell over the crowd. It was the type of silence that comes over a people when they realize that they are witnessing someone who can be truly great. It's the type of reverence reserved for a man one-part Rocky Balboa and the other Godzilla-killer. Stopwatches were set and the call was given.

The result was never in question, for Chestnut proved that he was no one time fluke. When the count was over, the results were announced to the waiting crowd. 59. A new world record. The place erupted. While not at the competition, Kobayashi had been defeated in spirit. His mark was no more.

"I always thought there was a limit - a limit to the human stomach and a limit to human willpower - but I guess not," remarked one witness. Truer words were never spoken.

***

As the months become weeks, the weeks, days, a crowd of unheard proportions will gather at Coney Island to witness. The hopes of nations rest on the shoulders of two men. But for the first time in a while, a smell will be in the air: the aroma of American victory. It is almost as if God, himself, is sending signals, for Chestnut will be twenty-three, the same age as Kobayashi in 2001.

July 4, 2007. 6:00 Eastern Standard Time. ESPN 2. Destiny awaits. Where will you be? Let the games begin.

U-S-A. U-S-A. U-S-A...

I Cut My Hair

No, really, I did. And I love it.

All Killer, No Filler

On April 28th and 29th, I attended my first-ever Jazzfest in New Orleans. For those of you who are not familiar with it, the event takes place over two weekends, traditionally towards the end of April and the beginning of May. Located at a racetrack in the middle of the city, the music ranges from jazz and blues to rock and hip-hop and can be heard from any of the about eight stages. I managed to check out three.

First up, Calexico. Hailing from Tucson, Arizona, the band, who look like your typical “indier-than thou” folk, play great rawk music, and add a touch of their home-state, too. The group includes a trumpet player and a drummer who throws in some maracas from time to time. Their hour-and-fifteen minute set was lively featuring mostly songs off their more recent albums and made me forget about everything except the fact I was listening to a great band. As the girl behind me said, “They’re, like, my favs, now.”

Next, Ludacris. Let me preface this by saying that I really, really like this guy. I think his rhymes are innovative and funny, and if here were ever able to do something serious, it would be worth of five mics. Unfortunately, Luda demonstrated the many problems with seeing live rap, in that too often it takes on the persona of All-Star Karaoke. Since most beats are machine-made, hip-hop artists often times just have their DJ’s put on an instrumental track and then rap over it. Luda not only did this, but also showed up late and didn’t swear, as “there were little kids in the audience.” I made it about halfway through his set, before I left highly disappointed. To his credit, he only performed his hits, including “Roll Dem Bones,” but it was still sad to think that he couldn’t keep me entertained enough to stick it out.

Finally, Jerry Lee Lewis. Born in Faraday, Louisiana, Lewis is easily in his mid-seventies, and at this point in his life has about the mobility of a tree firmly rooted in the earth. And there I was depending on him to bring me out of my Ludacris hangover from the previous day. By I all estimations, I should have been let down again. But then he stepped out and proved his nickname, because he FUCKING KILLED. Playing about ten of his best pieces, Lewis demonstrated the beauty of music. All great art transcends and Jerry Lee’s piano playing does just that. At his age, this motherfucker is still reaching all of the octaves with a goddamn mic-stand in between his arms.

It reminded quite a bit of when I saw Ray Charles. The acoustics could have been better, and both of the performers were clearly in the twilight of the lives and careers. But they were still performers. They knew what the crowd wanted, gave it to them, and made them leave wishing more was to come. Great musicians evoke all of your emotions during a show and make you believe that when you exit life is somehow never going to be better. Beautiful. Fuckin’ Beautiful.

It was also during Lewis’ performance the coup de grace of the Festival took place. My dad and I were standing together when two guys decided to light up a joint. Mike didn’t realize it, because he turned to me and said, “Is that, um…?” I responded simply, “Yeah.” Several more minutes passed and then my father started looking around. I don’t know exactly the following conversation happened, but I swear the following took place:

“Smells pretty good, eh?”

“I thought it smelled like it was pretty close by.”

“It’s close all right. Right behind you in fact.”

Awkward chuckle.

“Feel free to partake, if you would like, sir.”

I wish I could report that my dad hit it like a champ three or four times, and that the last time I saw him he was heading for the Lake to admire its many wonders. But he declined, and we turned around and rejoined Lewis.

***

In addition to the live music, artists from all over the country, including Native American reservations, display their work. Most of it is rather expensive, but original enough that it makes touring the grounds more than worthwhile. And then there’s the food. Like the art and music, it’s eclectic as well, from Cuban dishes to traditional Louisiana fare. My favorite, the Sweet Potato Cookies, were so mouthwatering good that I made sure to pick up a whole batch before I left. Bottom Line: Much like The Killer himself, Jazzfest made me so happy that I wondered I ever lived without it.