Shane’s Destination June 22, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, It, Los Angeles, Movies.add a comment
Loners. Vanguards. Gunfighters. Shane. Shane was horrible, by far the worst Western I’d ever seen in my life. Purists would call me a lunatic, but I never trust a purist. ‘Purist’ is a positive spin on ‘true believer’, a category of person I refuse to ever trust. You can’t talk to a true believer, not to any effect, that is; you can yell at them and hope some or any of it sinks in but as they speak they search for holes in their own argument and as you speak they prepare their next barrage. They’re not listening to anything you say because they don’t see the need. Their mind has been made up, and every conversation is a chance to drag another non-believer into the light.
Tangent, whatever.
Back to westerns. I can’t call myself a real fan simply because real fans happen to like terrible movies. The best ones I’ve seen are ones that break the mold in some way. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Outlaw Josey Wales were basically anti-war movies. Unforgiven was Clint Eastwood’s ultimate backlash at the hand that fed his career; the loner, the vanguard, the gunfighter, broken down for what it was – not legendary or respectable, but tragic. Thanks Byron, you poetic asshole, for turning the myths into the same depressed meaningless mess as everyone else. What, does Superman take detours into Mexican border towns to score cheap Lexapro? Why can’t anyone be bulletproof anymore? Let the man throw the Cadillac!
The main characteristic of the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter is that he goes from town to town, no real destination and no real starting point, ramblin’ like so many seventies rock bands glorified. You pick up, you go, you sit down for a second and tear the place apart, and then leave with only a trail of dust the people you knew left in the wake. You blew through town and as soon as everyone noticed, gone like Keyser Soze.
The movies always follow the town, watching the rider disappear into the sunset as the credits creep up, the huge Technicolor! globe taking over for the sun. But you never know what happens to the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter, and you only sort of care. It’s widely assumed that he just does what he did again, with a new town, new women, and new nemeses.
I’ll tell you what happens, he gets forty yards away and doubles back, usually from some higher vantage point, looking into the town he saved from certain destruction. But the masses who pled for him to stay have already gotten over it. They’ve gone back to the saloons and general stores and whatever buildings they have in old western towns. Butchers, tons of butchers. And an amicable coffin maker. They’re over it. The Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter knows that had he stayed, the jubilation would have subsided and business as usual would have set in just the same. The world is saved and the story is told, the details of which will get fuzzier and more grandiose until someone’s kid eventually calls the crazy old people out on their hyperbole. When it all comes into question, it becomes harder and harder to believe any of it. It’s like it never happened.
No homes, only temporary places to crash. People who’s idiosyncrasies and drinks of choice become harder and harder to recall. Returning will be as a visitor, but have I ever been anything but? Or am I the permanent visitor? That’ll probably change at some point.
Then again, it didn’t for Shane.
Chasing It May 28, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Baseball, It.add a comment
You can’t fake It. If It’s not there, odds are pretty good it never will be. It’s not something that anyone can manufacture, either. It is an elusive bastard.
This morning, it was plastered all over the bastion of journalistic integrity that is Sportscenter (Walter Cronkite wishes he thought of “Booyah!”) that the New York Yankees are on the brink of canning General Manager Brian Cashman. 
The man who collects allstars like a rich cougar collects poolboys, the guy who’s responsible for raiding other ballclubs of their best players, shaving them like show dogs and dragging them to the Bronx, is about to be the fallguy for the failings of the fourth place Yankees.
The thing is, the only people fighting this firing are the ones saying it’s manager Joe Torre who deserves to be held accountable. They want blood, they don’t care whose it is. Over a team that has been in the playoffs each of the last eleven years. So they haven’t won a World Series in seven years. Ask a Cub fan about patience.
The answer is obvious to anyone who can see beyond all of the dollar signs and corporate sponsorships. I am no Yankee fan, quite the contrary. It was looking up the standings at the Bombers from the vantage point of the Orioles that I understood exactly what’s wrong with the most valuable franchise in sports. There was a clear shift in philosophy, a shift that coincided almost exactly with the team signing away beloved Orioles ace Mike Mussina.
In the pre-Mussina days, the big names were not the guys who scared you as an enemy of the pinstripes. They were the guys like Paul O’Neill, who would bat .250 the whole season, but all of his hits would come at the worst possible time. Your team could be up on the Yanks by three in the eighth inning, but you knew a run was right around the corner. A bloop single by Posada, a standup double by O’Neill, an eight pitch walk to Jeter, and boom, Tino Martinez hits one out. Suddenly you’re on the wrong side of the result, and here comes the unhittable Mariano Rivera. Game over. These teams had an energy, a contagious camaraderie that made them the dynasty they were. Fiercely clutch, the only way to beat the Yankees was to survive the inevitable run. Few did.
And they totally forgot that.
Gone were the role players, the setup men, the glue guys who made those teams such a bitch to play against. In came Chuck Knoblauch, who crumbled so severely under the pressure that he lost his ability to make a routine throw to first base. In came Jason Giambi, who went from Giant Killer to just another guy. Even Alex Rodriguez, the most gifted ballplayer of this generation, found himself on the sports page only when he wasn’t getting it done. With rising expectations, the Yankee front office decided they needed to secure victory by bringing in talented mercenaries, guys who hardly cared about the guy next to them in the batting order. Why should they. They only just met.
No matter how much money the nation of Steinbrenner hurls onto the field, he can’t buy It. He can’t even find a group of guys that would be guaranteed to have It. It just happens, and that requires a bit of patience. You need selflessness, which is hard to get with eight figure salaries.
You could argue that this applies to anything. Are teams better than individuals? Usually. People have eccentrities and neuroses and daddy issues. A group doesn’t. Successful businesses get this. Mismanaged ones try to fake it, with company retreats and open bars. Because you can’t guarantee It by working harder or spending more or doing anything, a lot of people are ready to believe that It is basically a product of luck and nothing more. Cashman won’t be around to find out if that’s true or not, so I’ll give the ending away for his sake.
It isn’t.
