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Forget about it, Jake
Jan. 11th, 2005 10:42 amBravo's 2 AM movie this week is Chinatown, thus my insomniac idylls have been infused with epistemological mystery. For as wonderful as the acting, the sets and the cinematography are, what makes this film unique is the construction of an airtight box around a central chimera (Chinatown? What the fuck does Chinatown have to do with water rights in the San Fernando valley circa 1930-something?) I particularly like the last shot: a Chinese mob milling about on downtown city streets in sulfur-lit darkness, their eyes to the sky: "Forget about it, Jake. It's Chinatown." That's the only actual appearance of Chinatown in the movie, and those of us who are experts in the history of forgetting know that shortly afterwards this downtown will become obsolete. For when water comes to the San Fernando valley, decentralized sprawl follows, the efficient trolley system is torn out, replaced by massively wasteful freeways (cf. Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) Somebody gets rich, but it ain't you and it ain't me. Sort of the cinematic equivalent of Heart of Darkness.
Max got a phone call last night from the wealthy father of one of his classmates. The phone is in my office so I got to hear his side of the conversation. "No, I'm in the process of applying… It's a lot of work, yes. Four essays… I'll hear in April. I'm giving it my best shot, that's all I can really do… Why, Mister X! That's so nice of you, but I don't think it's necessary. But thank you so much, I'm really moved by your generosity…"
"What was that all about?" I asked as Max hung up the phone.
"That was Aaron's father," said Max. "He just offered me $5000 a year for college."
"You're kidding," I said.
"No," said Max.
"A gift?" said I, incredulously.
"That's what he said," said Max, shrugging.
There's something about Max that appeals to the fathers of his male classmates, particularly the ones who've been in and out of rehab. I ran into another one of those dads myself several weeks ago at FedEx, a bearish man with a beard who obviously knew me although rack my brain as I might, I couldn't for the life of me remember ever having met him before.
Fortunately I enjoy conversational detective work. Over the course of the next twenty minutes Bear Man revealed himself as a mega-wealthy land developer, resident of Pebble Beach, whose son went to school with Max. I kept staring at the heavy gold rings on his fingers. "Julius – " or whatever the fuck his kid's name is – "has no interest in what I do," Bear Man sighed. "But I know Max would. Do you mind if I give you my card? I'd love to take Max on one of my trips to Mexico where I go several times a year to scout out sites for future luxury resorts. I'm sure he'd get a lot out of it."
Now most mothers, I suspect, would see this as a kind of Death In Venice scenario – elderly man with romantic, barely repressed homosexual fixation on handsome young boy. I don't buy into the current pedophilia hysteria, however. I knew what this was all about was Bear Man's longing for a worthy son. Thus I was torn between describing to him in great detail exactly how smelly Max's feet are and just how hard it is to sit there without reacting when Max explains it all to you in high harangue mode, and making Bear Man an offer: divorce your wife and marry me! Even though I'm post-menopausal, I'm sure there are one or two viable eggs still floating around in my ovaries. We'll hire some high-priced fertility expert to fish them out, and maybe some of Lance Armstrong's sperm is floating around on EBay. You too can have the perfect son! All you have to do is support me in fabulous luxury.
In other news, the rain has been a disaster for the poor little store. I don't even think we cleared $800 last week which of course is the cause of my insomnia. And I am beating myself up over it, stupid idea, whatever made you think you could… etc etc which is very sad because I love my little store, it's a magic place, it brings joy to the world – and other people love it too when they can find it. But, see, that's the problem: nobody's coming to Cannery Row. The business model, I continue stubbornly to believe, is viable; the location is not. I'm on the verge of accepting a scut job for the next few months just to get us through till spring. I'm not complaining: you do what you have to do. All of us who were born into the United States at this particular juncture in time are very fortunate indeed. Just look at the rest of the world.
Max got a phone call last night from the wealthy father of one of his classmates. The phone is in my office so I got to hear his side of the conversation. "No, I'm in the process of applying… It's a lot of work, yes. Four essays… I'll hear in April. I'm giving it my best shot, that's all I can really do… Why, Mister X! That's so nice of you, but I don't think it's necessary. But thank you so much, I'm really moved by your generosity…"
"What was that all about?" I asked as Max hung up the phone.
"That was Aaron's father," said Max. "He just offered me $5000 a year for college."
"You're kidding," I said.
"No," said Max.
"A gift?" said I, incredulously.
"That's what he said," said Max, shrugging.
There's something about Max that appeals to the fathers of his male classmates, particularly the ones who've been in and out of rehab. I ran into another one of those dads myself several weeks ago at FedEx, a bearish man with a beard who obviously knew me although rack my brain as I might, I couldn't for the life of me remember ever having met him before.
Fortunately I enjoy conversational detective work. Over the course of the next twenty minutes Bear Man revealed himself as a mega-wealthy land developer, resident of Pebble Beach, whose son went to school with Max. I kept staring at the heavy gold rings on his fingers. "Julius – " or whatever the fuck his kid's name is – "has no interest in what I do," Bear Man sighed. "But I know Max would. Do you mind if I give you my card? I'd love to take Max on one of my trips to Mexico where I go several times a year to scout out sites for future luxury resorts. I'm sure he'd get a lot out of it."
Now most mothers, I suspect, would see this as a kind of Death In Venice scenario – elderly man with romantic, barely repressed homosexual fixation on handsome young boy. I don't buy into the current pedophilia hysteria, however. I knew what this was all about was Bear Man's longing for a worthy son. Thus I was torn between describing to him in great detail exactly how smelly Max's feet are and just how hard it is to sit there without reacting when Max explains it all to you in high harangue mode, and making Bear Man an offer: divorce your wife and marry me! Even though I'm post-menopausal, I'm sure there are one or two viable eggs still floating around in my ovaries. We'll hire some high-priced fertility expert to fish them out, and maybe some of Lance Armstrong's sperm is floating around on EBay. You too can have the perfect son! All you have to do is support me in fabulous luxury.
In other news, the rain has been a disaster for the poor little store. I don't even think we cleared $800 last week which of course is the cause of my insomnia. And I am beating myself up over it, stupid idea, whatever made you think you could… etc etc which is very sad because I love my little store, it's a magic place, it brings joy to the world – and other people love it too when they can find it. But, see, that's the problem: nobody's coming to Cannery Row. The business model, I continue stubbornly to believe, is viable; the location is not. I'm on the verge of accepting a scut job for the next few months just to get us through till spring. I'm not complaining: you do what you have to do. All of us who were born into the United States at this particular juncture in time are very fortunate indeed. Just look at the rest of the world.
