In Memory Of The Sad Clown

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Wrote this immediately after the passing of the great James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano) a while back. At the time, I couldn’t bring myself to watch “The Sopranos” but I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t the best way to honor his memory.

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — We all need our dreams, and one of mine was that “The Sopranos” would return one day, either to the big or small screen.

The dream ended this past week when the man who made Tony Soprano a household name, James Gandolfini, died at age 51 of a massive heart attack while vacationing with his son in Italy.

For all the times I have been touched, and touched deeply by his acting, I remain in stunned silence.

Not much in the way of tears, or overt sadness.

Not yet.

That might come when I watch the show again, which I, myself, have been unable to do.

Not yet.

Right now, I probably won’t make it through the opening credits.

Right now, I’m just trying to make it through one of the most difficult columns I’ve ever had to write.

It was much the same way when I lost close family members – my father (2008), father-in-law (2010) and stepfather (2011) — during these intervening years.

It took a while for the reality to set in.

And mock me if you will, I almost feel like I lost a member of my family in Gandolfini.

“The Sopranos” was in perpetual syndication in Gordonville.

It never got old.

Why?

Perhaps, I craved that sameness amid the many changes in my life – good and bad, sad and glad, personal and professional — since it first aired in 1999.

Perhaps, it just appealed to me as a fan of the mob genre. After all, the great movie of my generation is “The Godfather.”

Perhaps, it’s a mixture of all the above, along with the fact that I saw a lot of myself in Tony (sans actually whacking people). I have been known to have a short fuse, but I also have a big heart – exemplified by a love of four-legged creatures displayed by Tony — and expend a lot of needless energy worrying what other people think.

In addition to sharing paranoia bordering on unhealthy, we both held disdain for those who drift through life – and in between the raindrops without getting wet — as the “happy wanderer.”

When he described himself as “the sad clown,” I completely caught his drift.

The most amazing times were the first viewings of episodes, on Sunday nights, when I would be thinking exactly what Tony was thinking before he made his gestures of war and peace, and understood the indecision that followed his decisiveness.

Part of the immediate appeal of “The Sopranos” – when I first caught it during one of those free enticement weekends of HBO — was that the star, while captivating, was not a dashing leading man in the traditional sense.

It gave it brevity and levity.

And it shot to No.1 with a bullet in my heart, my soul and mind.

I soon took to wearing jogging suits and using the verbiage. It gave me a shield for my sensitivity.

In 2007, the same year my daughter was born, “The Sopranos” aired its final episode, with the screen suddenly fading to black while Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was halted at “don’t stop.” I defended it publicly, but secretly found it a bitter pill to swallow.

Still, I had the body of work — like that of The Beatles, Shakespeare or “The Brady Bunch” – to rely on.

And, like fans of the Fab Four – up until the death of John Lennon — I held out hope for more.

My little lullaby: The final show’s ending could mean anything.

Maybe Tony didn’t die in that diner, even though the fade-to-black hint was foretold in a prior episode. Maybe Silvio (Van Zandt) will come out of his coma. Maybe Chase, the show’s visionary, won’t take himself so seriously and will create a new world around Tony and Carmela (brilliantly played by Edie Falco) by using top-shelf Italian-American actors that would be at his disposal for a feature film or HBO mini-series.

And maybe Gandolfini, who turned Tony into the character that stirred “da gravy,” would wake up one day and have an epiphany. Maybe he would realize that he was meant to play Tony, not second bananas in big-budget movies, and call Chase and get on the same page for a new chapter.

While it seemed less and less likely, “The Sopranos” never let me down.

The show became my beacon. Nothing before it, or since, will ever take its place.

Part of its brilliance is that it never gets old.

It has kept me grounded, and kept me thinking.

I don’t drink, gamble or smoke. I don’t even golf or play cards with the guys.

My outlet, when the house is dark and no one else is awake, is to watch “The Sopranos.”

The more I allegedly evolve – or at least change – the more I glean from watching it on a continual loop.

My holy trinity – if Jewish guys are allowed such things – consisted of Sofia, Springsteen and “The Sopranos.”

And Gandolfini is the main reason it achieves such lofty status.

A night or two before I learned of Gandolfini’s passing, I watched an episode on HBO Signature. It was the one where the inner-circle holds a drug intervention for Christopher Moltisanti (played to perfection by the unheralded Michael Imperioli).

Christopher lashes out at each person in the room, including Tony. He tells him that he is going to die of a heart attack “before 50” if he keeps eating the way he does.

Ironically, Gandolfini – in a rare interview – was quoted as saying it would be “kind of lame” if the show ended with Tony dying of a heart attack.

Instead, that’s how the dream ended.

As much as Hollywood thrives on remakes, the curtain has now fallen on “The Sopranos.” The greatest compliment to Gandolfini is that if they made a remake 50 years from now, it wouldn’t work. No one can replicate his masterful portrayal.

In that sense, he was a true original.

He takes that to his early grave.

I am not one of Gandolfini’s loved ones — a group that includes both family and his many professional associates — and I can’t pretend to imagine how they feel.

But I count myself among his legion of enduring admirers.

Together, in ways we can’t yet fully express – or shouldn’t have to explain to those who “don’t get it” – we mourn his loss.

And I mourn my lost dream.

From Fantasy To Reality

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By GORDON GLANTZ

GordonGlantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the Aaron Hernandez murder case lately.

And three names come to mind: Jimmy Graham, Jason Witten and Tony Gonzalez.

And no for the uninitiated – i.e. fairer sex – they do not comprise the legal defense Dream Team II, ready to swoop and rescue the accused Hernandez from a seeming lock for a life sentence in the alleged cold and calculated slaying of an “associate.”

With Hernandez in stripes, and teammate Ron Gronkowski on the mend from offseason surgery, the aforementioned comprise the other “elite” tight ends that suddenly move up the cheat sheets for the litany of fantasy football drafts that will be taking place next month.

Why, you may wonder, am I taking this twisted and demented view of the killing of a man?

Because, gulp, I am back in the game.

I pretty much gave up fantasy football around the time Sofia came into the world, but it turned out that itch I was feeling was not a mosquito bite.

The conduit for my old addiction, one I thought I had beaten, coming back to haunt me was Facebook.

I sent a private message to the guy who still runs my former league, the one I co-founded, and he said he wished he could get some of the clowns currently in the circuit to move along but, at present, there were no openings.

Part of me was disappointed, but another was relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain to my better half that I getting back into it.

Choosing to look on the bright side, I put this minor disappointment behind me.

But, as fate would have it, an old college chum, a Jewish guy who likes country music – we’ll call him Bucky Goldberg – messaged me saying his league had a spot open and asked if I was interested.

He added that he wasn’t sure if I had done the fantasy thing or not, but figured it was worth a try.

Ha, Bucky!

You’re talking to a draft-day specialist, perennial contender and multiple winning of championships here.

But also someone who doesn’t wear the pants in the family – a sad-but-true fact I had to reveal.

Peering out through the eye holes from the bag over my head, I told him I’d have to ask my wife.

With quivering knees, I submitted my application for approval, which she promptly stamped “denied” upon in the Gordonville Court of Common Pleas.

I didn’t even get the chance to argue about how I don’t do all the other things guys do – poker night, golf outings, shooting pool, bowling leagues, hunting/fishing trips, darts  etc. – while riding the hobby horse of life.

If it were a Democracy, the cruel and unusual treatment would have been unconstitutional.

However, upon appeal, I was granted tepid permission – but under the condition that if I became obsessed again, I would have to quit in the middle of the season.

In the middle of the season?

Quit?

Forgive her, she knows not of what she speaks.

In the judges’ chambers, we hammered out a deal.

I explained that we are in the age of hand-held devices – app-loaded cell phones and iPads – I wouldn’t have to spend hours on end following games online (I once spent three-plus hours following a San Diego Chargers game on NFL.com because I was in the playoffs, as per usual, and LaDainian Tomlinson held my fate in his hands).

At that point, I was granted one probationary season.

With that, I sprung right to action.

I contacted Bucky with the news, went right out and bought my first magazine to prep for the merciless act of drafting the rest of the league into submission and have played out D-Day (draft day, ladies) scenarios and strategies in my head.

I stumbled out of the starting gate, needing 129 tries to log onto the league website, but my team – “DaSopranos” (not my first choice for a name, but all the others were taken by someone in one of the leagues on the site that hosts my new league) – is now an official franchise.

I texted my good friend, the guy I co-founded the former league with, and secretly hoped he would sign on as consultant.

Instead, I got back “Ha Ha, have fun with that.”

My response: “The draft will be fun, probably all downhill from there.”

I was being modest. Barring injuries – I once had a player, Joey Galloway, pull up lame with hamstring injury minutes before a game (costing me a semifinal win) – it’s going to be a proverbial walk in the park.

The hope, though, is the years away have taught me to take it with a grain of salt.

Then again, salt is loaded with sodium.

And sodium is to blood pressure what tobacco is to lung cancer.

And the cheerleaders say: Give me an Oy. Give me a Vey. Oy … Vey. … Oy … Vey …

Welcome To American History Z

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – Welcome, class, to American History Z.

Kind of has a nice ring to it. “X” is already taken by the phenomenal movie starring Edward Norton, and “Y” implies we don’t know, when we do.

Plus, “Z” indicates a bottom line, the isle of last resort.

History, unlike a skew viewed of the truth, cannot be changed.

It is the Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. It’s always there.

Here at Gordonville U., we don’t hang the 10 commandments in public places. But that doesn’t mean we don’t adhere to most.  We do, but with some additions and subtractions.

The key subtraction is the Sabbath and keeping it holy. We’ll gladly take that trade in exchange for: Thou Shall Not Pervert History, which is kind of akin to bearing false witness.

The reasoning is simple. You are bound to repeat history, and are committing a gargantuan sin by spreading ignorance to future generations.

We find the most egregious offenders in the wicked world of political views, but it seems that those on the right – the Party of No – seem to have the market cornered.

Twitter and Facebook allows for an instant window into their mind set, and I’m seeing serious lies.

Perhaps they are joking with some of this misinformation, but given that the most on right are of ill humor, it is highly unlikely.

Let’s start simple, with the semi-regular crapola from the right about how Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves and that he was a Republican. Again, a sick and twisted perversion, to which I sentence these transgressors to 40 hours of American History Z (no predatory student loans required).

Yes, Honest Abe belonged to a political party called Republican, but it does not resemble today’s Republican Party.

If it did, they would genuflect in front of him instead of Ronald Reagan at each presidential convention.

But quietly, in the dark world that is social media, they use this nonsense to pounce on the gullible like trout on the first day of fishing season.

Lincoln was a liberal, a progressive. Doesn’t exactly sound like someone who would advocate voting to repeal Obamacare 6,551 times instead of getting anything of substance done.

The change in platforms came when the country went to Hell in a hand basket on the Republicans’ watch (Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover) and a new Democrat with a new deal, Franklin Deleno Roosevelt, enacted policies to dig the country out of The Great Depression and to the precipice of victory in World War II.

From that point on, it was Democrats – not Republicans – who picked up the dropped and tarnished baton of Lincoln and carried it toward a hopeful finish line by making Jim Crow an outlaw. It was the post-FDR Democrats who sought to feed the hungry, clothe the poor and give shelter to the homeless.

But the misinformation pipeline does not end there.

I came across another feed about the year 1913, which apparently is becoming a battle cry among the “Don’t Tread On Me” types that misspell the signs they tote at Tea Party gatherings.

That was the year the 16th amendment – i.e. income tax – was ratified (it was actually introduced in 1909).

I know they resent being taxed to share services with their fellow Americans, while remaining blind to the fact that the real issue is that the wealthiest among us – left (Democrat), right (Tea Party, as the GOP is on life support) and indifferent (Independent, Libertarian)  don’t pay their fair share.

That’s part of the debate; part of the two versions of the truth and the real truth lying somewhere in the middle, which is theoretically healthy.

The fact vs. fiction, where History goes on trial for its life, is the attempt to say that America was totally awesome up until then — which it probably was for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the male gender. For them, as bosses and industrialists, it was all hunky dory.

Not for most women, blacks, steel workers, coal miners and Catholic/Jewish recent immigrants of the time.

The post I saw – from an entity called the Comical Conservative – claiming that we still had schools (check out the literacy rate and how long the average child attended) and colleges (for the rich and famous). They say there were roads (we quickly out-grew what we had then, and they know it), vast railroads (in lieu of airlines, since the Wright Bros. were only 10 years removed from making a plane fly at the speed of a paper airplane), streets (see roads) and subways (see roads, vast railroads).

And, right on cue, 1913 America had a military that boasted an 8-0 record (would have been 0-1 without France’s help in the Revolutionary War, but that’s a buried truth).

OK, you want to play? Let’s play.

Let’s peel away at this potato (which was one of the only forms of sustenance for many Americans then).

In 1913, the year the country was allegedly idyllic:

-In addition to the 16th Amendment, we also had the 17th Amendment, which allowed the actual people of each state – well, the male voters and the white male voters down yonder – to elect their own senators (as opposed to state legislatures playing politics and paying off favors).

-A year after a parade in New York, the women’s suffrage parade – with black women marching at the back, so as not to offend any Southerners considering allowing women the right to vote – took place in Washington, D.C., setting the stage for 1920, when the 19th Amendment was passed, allowing women to vote. We still have not had a woman president, unlike a good number of democracies.

-In Atlanta, a 13-year-old girl named Mary Phagan was raped and strangled to death. Her boss happened to be a perceived interloper from the New York City, a “Yankee Jew” named Leo Frank. Because he was the last one to see her alive, the populist politicians of the time conspired with the prosecutors to suppress evidence that would have created reasonable doubt. He was sentenced to death. While the governor considered commuting the sentence, he conducted his own investigation and was troubled by what he discovered. He lessened the sentence to life in jail, but that wasn’t good enough for a populace consistently whipped into a frenzied state by newspaper editorials. In 1915, several prominent citizens of Marietta, Ga. formed a posse and stormed the prison. Likely with the help of some personnel inside, they removed Frank and lynched him. This event led to the formation of the Anti-Defamation League, but also the revival of the KKK that reached an apex in the 1920s.

-In Michigan, a miner’s strike that began in 1912 was still ongoing on Christmas Eve of 1913 when the union threw a party for the families of the striking miners. Someone at the party – and evidence suggests it was a corporate thug with specific orders – yelled “fire,” causing a stampede that the led to the death of 73 recent immigrants from Finland, Croatia and Italy. Of the 73 killed, 59 were children. In 1941, Woody Guthrie immortalized the incident with the song “1913 Masscare.”

-Seeking similar improvements in the workplace as those in Michigan – humane conditions, better hours and wages – garment workers in New York and Boston went on strike.

-They all should have been happy to be here and not complain? Consider that there were 25,000 deaths due to industrial accidents.

-“Camels” hit the market as the first packaged cigarette (a nation’s lungs were never the same).

-Phi Sigma Sigma became the first nonsectarian sorority. Doesn’t sound like much now to have diversity, but this was a bold move at the time.

With or without taxes, it doesn’t sound like we have come too far in 100 years, other than that most of us are a little bit more polite to each other’s faces.

Except now we have Social Media – Twitter and Facebook – where fact and fiction are so easily confused, and where it’s the grade “F” all around in American History Z.