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.

A Brief Memoir

(NOTE: This post was supposed to be about my time down in New Orleans for Jazzfest. But after today, it's hard to even really think about it. Also, the following should be viewed in this context: (1)I have no personal life because I couldn't devote the energy for when it didn't work out.(2)I can't really ever relax. This past weekend should have been a good time, but I would get lost in thinking about different aspects of cases. My mom would ask, "Are you okay?" Truthfully, I would say, "Yeah, I'm just thinking." In the end, I'm a 25 year old parent to 20 people. What else should consume my thoughts?)

My day began sitting in court two-and-a-half hours waiting to be called for an interdiction hearing. Rather than listening and watching the other attorneys, I mostly just sat there thinking about all of the other work, I really needed to be doing. When the judge finally got around to my case, I barely said three words before he called opposing counsel and myself up and told us to do some more work and come back next week. He was being fair, but it's also a case into which I've put over a hundred hours or literally $10,000 worth of my time. So, it was a little frustrating to be told that I hadn't done enough yet and return when he deemed it sufficient.

I hadn't yet arrived to my office when I received a call from a client essentially telling me that his employer was getting ready to fire him, because he filed a discrimination complaint with the EEOC. I had warned him this might happen, but still it's a little tough to deal with when it is actually going. We worked out a plan of action which I think will diffuse that time bomb for a while.

When I got back, I checked my mail and calls. Everything seemed fairly calm, but I needed to get to lunch with my partners. I was hoping for some relaxation as we traded stories about our weekends. Instead, we got into a pretty solid discussion about which of our cases are the shittiest.

Returned from that only to have a deluge of phone calls from three clients wanting a whole bunch of crap done. While they babbled, I mostly thought about ways I could hang myself with my own phone cord. And then the real delight came at around 3:00.

A woman came into our offices to discuss a number of incidents. One involved her ex-husband molesting her, at the time, seven year old son. I read the police report which described how he used to sleep in the same bed with the child and touch his genitals. The kid was traumatized enough to fucking tell people that his father and him were going to have a baby together and drew stick-figure pictures of the three of them.

After I was done looking throught the horrific drawings, I went and visited with my new juvenile client. Since the last time I saw him, their house has had the electricity and phone turned off and the carpet is now covered with trash, giving the place a nice aroma of rotting food. The kid, who is 14, has no priors, but something is clearly now going on with him. A friend of his came in and grabbed the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers booksack that my client had been carrying. Something valuable was clearly in it, and my first thought was of the movie Fresh. And I wondered if he was a runner for some local.

I got back to the office, spent some time researching a hopeless argument, and then started typing this. I get to look forward to going home tonight to a cat that hates me right now, and then repeating all of this again tomorrow. It should be just as cheerful considering I'm doing a trial prep for a gun charge in Federal Court. My client is assuredly going to lose and get the maximum of 120 months. He's got 7 kids and a wife. But on the bright side, he's only 37, so at least he'll be out before 50.

My point in telling all of this is not to purely garner sympathy. But to let you know that for most of us young lawyers doing it ourselves, this is what every day is like. I work myself to the point of exhaustion, go to bed, get up, eat a pop-tart and go back to it. Every goddamned day.