"I believe that man will not merely endure: He will prevail"

He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.

--William Faulkner's Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech

Today is September 25, 2007. Fifty years ago today, nine black students integrated my alma mater, Little Rock Central High. It was not an easy task. They faced racist mobs and ignorant bigots. The governor tried to keep them out with the National Guard, so the President sent the Army in to secure their entrance. Today, the current governor and a former President honored them and their historic deed. I listened to all of the speeches on the radio--it was quite moving. This celebration has been a long time coming. In honor of this historic event, the Clinton Presidential Library hosted the original document of the Emancipation Proclamation. I went down to the library and viewed it on Sunday evening. Apparently, they only display the document once a year for 48 hours. That was one of the Fun Facts listed on the handout about the Emancipation Proclamation. You'd think a document that essentially set a people free from slavery would be more dignified than to have "Fun Facts" listed about it.
But there were a few enlightening things about the actual document, printed in full on the reverse of the aforementioned handout. Most people are aware that when Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation it was only effective for those slave states that had seceded from the Union (ie. they weren't under his control, and the border slave states that were friendly to the Union were exempted from the Emancipation--politics was full of special interests and hypocrisy even under Lincoln). But reading on even further, Arkansas, my state, is the first to be declared free. Then Texas. Then Louisiana (except the Parishes of St. Bernard, Plaquemines, Jefferson. . . ) What? That's right, the ugly truth. Even the city of New Orleans was exempted. Certain counties in Virginia were exempted. I was shocked. Things have always been screwed up when it comes to politics and doing what is right.
I guess that is why it takes so long for change to occur. The exhibit went on to outline the Civil Rights struggle over the years. It is a fortunate thing, in a way, that the white people were so ugly and horrible in Little Rock in 1957. By showing their grotesqueries to the world, they made others so ashamed that, slowly, a change could occur. On a personal note, many of those iconic images of hatred, including the one above, were photographed by my father's friend and college roommate, Will Counts. Also, I'd like to point out the fact that I've now done TWO posts about important milestones from 1957. The other being the publishing of On the Road, in case you missed it.
I then noticed, thanks to a blurb in the New York Times, that William Faulkner was born on this day 110 years ago. See how history makes it easy for you to connect the dots? The subject of racism and the evil that man is capable of were familiar territory for the South's most famous novelist. Seven years before the Central High crisis, Faulkner was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He used the occasion to deliver a particularly powerful message you can read here. He had also made a statement a year before the Central High crisis in Harper's Magazine, June of 1956, stating that:

"We cannot choose freedom
established on a hierarchy of degrees of freedom,
on a caste system of equality like military rank.
We must be free not because we claim freedom,
but because we practice it."

Several years ago I had the privilege to film a documentary with William Faulkner's nephew, Jimmy Faulkner. I remember Jimmy saying that when he congratulated his uncle on the Nobel Prize win, Faulkner simply shrugged it off saying, "Fine. Let's go hunting." Upon further research I found that Faulkner used the money he won from the Nobel Prize to fund a prize for aspiring writers (resulting in the Pen/Faulkner award) and also established a scholarship for African-American education majors at Rust College in Holly Springs, Mississippi. So, file that with your Fun Facts about William Faulkner. A great novelist and a remarkable Southerner.
In 1991 I graduated from Little Rock Central High. I was able to dig this up for your amusement:
One thing I hope you will notice from this yearbook page is the diversity of color, not to mention hairstyles. Going through my yearbook I saw a lot of faces that I miss, a lot that I don't miss, and not a few I wish I'd never met--not that many of them ever knew I existed. But this is neither the time or place for my own High School disappointments.

"George Bush doesn't care about black people"--Kanye West after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans

"I find it hard to believe that George Bush cares about anyone."--Kanye West on Nightline after being asked if he regrets the previous statement.

At this 50th anniversary of the Little Rock Nine, much has been made of the continuing progress that needs to be made, and I agree, their is still far too much prejudice in the world, not just between white and black, but between that which we know and understand and that which we don't. However, I feel I must defend one point that has come under constant scrutiny by the media and that is the Advanced Placement classes at Central High. They are crying that this is just another form of racism. I disagree. I took the Advanced Placement classes. I had incredible teachers. And there were black students in those classes with me. Those classes allowed me to test out of an entire year of college courses. The AP classes are not at fault here, nor are the students in them. At fault is our education system overall that is failing to educate students up to that point. At fault is a society that devalues intelligence and hard work. At fault is apathy and easy answers to complex problems. Despite the fact that I never learned the words to Central's alma mater--I simply hummed "Smile Darn You Smile"--I am proud that I graduated from a school with such an important place in history. Today, I applaud that place, and those nine courageous souls.

Twenty Films in Five Days

I just recently returned from the 2007 Toronto International Film Festival in Canada. I basically averaged four films a day and saw a total of 20 films. By the third day I felt like I needed the Ludovico technique just to keep my eyes open. But I persevered, and fortunately was rewarded for my effort with several fine screenings.
I could tell you about the cab driver, Bobby, who picked us up at the airport and must have repeated the phrase, "I know my sports" twenty times. It was oddly impressive that he knew the name of Arkansas's baseball team, the Travelers. But I could neither repeat or corroborate most of his facts, as I am not a sports fan. Film is my mistress, that's why I was in Toronto. Not for hockey, or football, or anything else. I leave that to those better suited. I did realize that for me, Hell would certainly consist of a lot of one-sided conversations about sports.
Here are the films I saw, with a one-word review:
Control-stark
Lust, Caution-pelvic
Fugitive Pieces-engaging
No Country for Old Men-wonderful
Juno-funny
Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford-boring
Starting Out in the Evening-wasteful
Reservation Road-bad
Eastern Promises-good
The Visitor-best
Encounters at the End of the World-penguins!
The Man from Plains-Carter!
It's a Free World-downer
Lars and the Real Girl-predictable
Sleuth-remake
Margot at the Wedding-wicked
Breakfast with Scot-Canadian
Le Scaphandre et le Papillon-powerful
Cassandra's Dream-Woody!
I'm Not There-Dylan!

While I was there, my friend Renee got to talk with Viggo Mortensen and David Cronenberg about their film, Eastern Promises. Here is that interview:


By the way, if you are ever in Toronto and need a taxi driver with a vast knowledge of sports trivia, be sure to give Bobby a call at 418-444-1827. That's his home number. He doesn't have a cell. But he knows his sports.

Windows on the World: 9/11 and the View from Here

There are some things we just can never quite comprehend--things that just make no sense--like W. winning a second term. 9/11 is one of those things that I think about from time to time. A fragment here, a place, a memory. And sometimes the oddest little details, thrown-away, discarded moments of time get sculpted into a greater piece and scare us in how well they fit together. This picture is one of those fragments of time. It's of me and my friend Hudson at Windows on the World--the restaurant/bar that was on the top floor of the WTC. Hudson had this old busted camera he found in a drawer at work (a film camera, the days before digital). He didn't realize it at the time, but it was all screwed up, and it would create these crazy double images. So here you have us chopped off in reality, but reflected in a ghostly image over our heads. And how odd that FIRE alarm over my head.
A few months ago I picked up Don DeLillo's recent novel Falling Man which deals with 9/11 and the aftermath of one man and his family. I'd been on a Don DeLillo kick recently, reading all of his old stuff, so I was glad to see this new book was coming out. And it didn't disappoint. It's quite a powerful read and he does an incredible job putting you there in those towers and describing what it must have been like when it happened--the chaos--and the long journey down.
It made me think of my own experiences at the World Trade Center. As I've mentioned before, I lived in New York City back in 1999. At the time, I felt disenchanted with The City, as if it wasn't what I expected from the movies I loved; Manhattan, Annie Hall. It was right as the Dow was crossing 10,000 for the first time--I can remember the headline. I had a small black and white TV set that only picked up one channel--Bloomberg. So if I wasn't working, I'd watch the stocks crawl across the bottom throughout the day.
As I mentioned, Hudson came to visit for a Neil Young show at Madison Square Garden. I took him down to Windows on the World for a cocktail--it seemed like a good touristy thing to do, and you couldn't beat the view. Here's another one of those ghostly images his busted camera kept taking.

Shortly after I had moved to New York, when it was still Winter and quite cold, I went out on the town with some new friends I'd met. One of the places we went one night was Windows on the World. I remember there was a really cute girl who worked as a fact checker for People magazine. I got a big kick out of that because we always had People magazine around the house (my dad loved the crossword puzzle in the back because it was full of easy pop culture clues). She was wearing the smartest looking hat, like something out of "Breakfast at Tiffany's". There was another girl with us whose mother was in the Daughters of the American Revolution and she felt it was important we know that. She also kept her dog in her purse--but he wasn't with us this particular evening. I also remember a young Egyptian doctor--a dentist--and he was dancing and quite taken with the daughter of the Daughter of the American Revolution. And I remember he was full of advice for me about making it in New York. I can't remember it now and I obviously didn't then.
As we were leaving, I took the claim checks for all of the girls coats so I could pick them up and pay for them downstairs. That was not a cheap gesture for a free-lancing-recently-evicted-young-man, but I'm afraid it made no impression on my hat wearing friend. But she did share the taxi fare to a night club we visited next. The club was very modern, circa 1999, and you had to go through an alley, there was no sign. And I remember the coat check was through a door and all of a sudden you were in an 1960s diner with old men drinking coffee. A world removed from the techno and black lights on the other side of the door. The reason I mention this is because there was another piece of the crazy puzzle that, in hindsight, all starts to add up to something. I remember seeing Bill Maher at that nightclub that evening. He was hosting his popular "Politically Incorrect" TV show on ABC at the time. It was right after 9/11 that he made his famous comment about the terrorists not being "cowards" which cost him his job and that show. Fortunately, he was able to start a new show with HBO which is usually pretty damn funny--especially when he "kids" the president.

So, looking back on it, the New York I knew in 1999 was a quite different place from the one I seeked in images from the '70s. But the time between those decades seems brief and small compared to the distance between 1999 and the New York (or America for that matter) of today, post 9/11. And when you really look at it, there were these little incidents, clues, of time weaving itself through our lives and creating moments of continuity. One last thought--going back to that little black and white TV that only picked up Bloomberg. On 9/11/2001 I was back living in Little Rock. The place where I worked, despite being in television production, had no working television to watch the news (they hadn't paid the cable bill apparently). So a co-worker ran home and picked up a small, portable TV set, no different from that one I had in New York. And that's how I watched those planes fly through the windows on the world.

Hey Jack Kerouac, Crazy Dumbsaint of the Mind

But I end up going anyway because I want to see what they're all going to do next.
After all, the only reason for life or a story is "What Happened Next?"
--Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels

Jack Kerouac ruined my life. Up until I read Kerouac I had a pretty active imagination and enjoyed writing, what I thought, was some pretty outrageous stuff. But he changed all of that. I was in High School, probably eleventh grade, when I read On the Road which was published fifty years ago today. I don't think it was assigned text. That would be a bit too edgy for the Little Rock Public School District. We did have a substitute teacher in our twelfth grade English class devote a day's lesson to Ginsberg's Howl. I almost suspect our real teacher of faking her illness and putting the substitute--a former student--up to the job.
Anyway, reading Kerouac, I felt it was so authentic, so real, that everything I wrote was fake and phony. So, I tried writing like Kerouac, from my life's experiences. And shortly after that, I stopped writing. But I didn't stop reading Kerouac. I consumed it all--Vanity of Dulouz, Big Sur, The Dharma Bums, Book of Blues, Visions of Cody (an early version of On the Road), Maggie Cassidy, Lonesome Traveler, The Subterraneans, both volumes of published letters and various works in odd compilations like Good Blonde and Others. But I think my favorite of them all is Desolation Angels.
So I say he ruined my life. But that's not true. Something in what he was saying spoke to me and I just needed to keep hearing it. He certainly gave me a sense of wanderlust. Although I never lived in San Francisco, I had several friends live there over the years and I often visit, always with a stop at City Lights Books. I did manage to live in New York City for a brief time--imagining my tiny walk-up apartment as some garret akin to a Beat's pad down in the Village--which by 1999 a real Beat couldn't even afford. In fact, while I was waiting to take possession of my Manhattan sub-let (from which I would be evicted shortly for reasons beyond my control--but it's a good story--and true!) I took the train to Boston to visit Chope and Ali for a few days. Chope loaned me his car to make the day trip over to Lowell, Kerouac's hometown. Lowell was an old mill town. The mills were all vacant. But you could still see the High School Kerouac attended looking much the same. There was also a nice memorial for the hometown boy who had created a literary and cultural sensation--large marbe slabs with long quotes from his work. 
After looking around the town, I headed out to the cemetery where the lonesome traveler was laid to rest. I had a map from the helpful people at the visitor's center, but the ground was covered with snow and ice which can make locating a headstone not only difficult but treacherous. Once I got in the general vicinity, I could tell I was getting warm by the empty wine bottles and tributes left by previous pilgrims. Still, I couldn't SEE anything that said Here Lies Jack Kerouac. I paced around a little bit on the ice and was beginning to feel pretty bummed when all of a sudden--Snap! The ice cracked below my feet and my foot sank through right on top of the marker. I knelt down and began to clear away the ice so I could read it. This was it. JOHN L KEROUAC. HE HONORED LIFE.
That's what it said there on the marker. Still speaking to me, after I'd exhausted all of his other writings. For the 50th anniversary of On the Road they've published the original scroll he wrote initially in 1951. That's what I'm reading right now. It's good to hear from Jack again.  
"Don't you know God is Pooh Bear?"

Your Princess, She is Dead

You may be sensing a trend that all my posts are going to be about dead people and their anniversaries. But they're not, I promise. But death is part of life so I'm not going to hide the eventual outcome from you. And you may be saying to yourself--what does Princess Di have to do with my life? Well, I felt the same way ten years ago. That's when she died in a car crash in Paris. The photo is one I took in Paris right outside of the tunnel where it happened. It was maybe a week after and the impromptu shrine was still up but the flowers were wilting. I had just come from Rome where my good camera had been stolen while I was waiting at the train station, so my photos from Paris were all taken on a disposable piece of crap. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I spent the summer of 1997 travelling through Europe. I had been to England, Scotland, Ireland, Germany, Prague, Austria, Italy and Switzerland. I had finally slowed down my pace and settled in on the Cote d'Azur--visiting Cannes, Monte Carlo, and taking a room for several days at a pension in Nice, France.
I came in from one of my day trips over to Monte Carlo or Cannes, and as I was walking up the stairs to my room, the owner of the pension yelled to me, somewhat in hysterics.
"The princess, she is dead!"
I didn't know what he said. I figured it was his French accent mauling whatever he was trying to say in English.
"Excuse me?"
"Your princess, yes, she is dead!"
What in the world--my princess? Dead? This made no sense to me. I had no princess but even if I did, how would this guy know? I explained to him I had no idea what he was saying. Now it was his turn to be confused.
"You don't know your princess? Princess Diana? English, yes?"
Eventually we figured out that he thought I was British, not American. He filled me in on the tragic events of the day and let me go on my way. I don't know why, but it kind of hit me. It was one of those big moments, like I had longed for with Elvis's return.
It seemed like everyone was united for a moment, and all focus was on this one thing. I had a Walkman cassette player that had been wearing out a copy of Radiohead's "OK Computer" all summer--that's right, "OK Computer" was released ten years ago, go ahead and dial it up on your iPod, do you feel old now?. The Walkman also had a radio tuner on it. So I went down to the beach and listened to the BBC's ongoing report. The events leading up to the accident. The moving of the body back to England. I don't know why I was so wrapped up in it. She wasn't my princess.

By Popular Demand--Elvis is Still Dead

This is the clip referenced from CNN that clearly shows John, Justin, and part of Walt looking very solemn (when in actuality we were really drunk) standing in the middle of Elvis Presley Boulevard with our impromptu shrine. Justin requested I add this to the post.