Thursday, November 16, 2017

The highly personal reasons I was wrong about the third season of "Twin Peaks"

This post contains spoilers about my life.

I wrote some pretty snarky stuff about the third season of Twin Peaks, which is to be released on DVD December 5, 2017. In particular, I singled out the character commonly referred to as “Dougie Cooper,” whom I called “Stupor Cooper,” for special derision. 

Basically, I saw the character as everything that was wrong with the third season of Twin Peaks. Boy was I ever wrong. Dougie Cooper isn’t just the best character in the Twin Peaks revival, he might be the best Twin Peaks character ever. The reasons for this are highly personal, even painful.

As I was watching it, the third season of Twin Peaks was a frustrating, annoying experience. I even spent a few weeks writing and creating the voice over for a parody video in which I was going to make fun of the people doing explainer videos, and make fun of Lynch and Frost for what seemed to me to be capricious, artsy (as opposed to artful) choices that were preventing us spending time in the presence of the characters we loved from the original iteration of the show, in particular the amazing Agent Dale Cooper.

What we got in Agent Cooper’s place was Dougie Cooper, who wandered and stumbled his way through the show, repeating the last word he’d heard or scribbling lines on paper that would later be interpreted by others as some amazing insights. The repetition got to be unbearable, especially in those moments when it appeared that Agent Cooper was going to come back to us, that Dougie was going to finally “snap out of it” and get back to Twin Peaks for a reunion with Hawk and Lucy and Andy and (dare to hope!) Audrey and so on. 

I think now that part of why I resented Dougie Cooper so much is because, well, I have been Dougie Cooper. For awhile. Stumbling through my life confused, befuddled by my place in the world, by my purpose—misunderstanding what I was supposed to be doing. And, more importantly, who I was supposed to be.



Part of me understood that I was living a life that was full of very important benefits and comforts and safety, but that I was still not fully present for lack of a better word. There was something wrong with the way I was living. I needed to change. I needed to wake up! I’ve often had the feeling that all I was doing was mimicking what I saw other people doing without fully understanding the motives behind those actions. Not only that—I have to rely on others to point me in the correct direction—even to the point that I need someone to grab me before I LITERALLY walked into a wall.

When Agent Cooper finally made his appearance, breaking out of the Dougie Cooper stupor, I got very emotional. It wasn’t just the Twin Peaks theme playing in the background, and it wasn’t just his “I AM the FBI” line. I think it was a part of me recognizing that I was in the process of changing.

Change is difficult, and painful.

I love to engage with great art. It’s exciting to encounter something that’s worth the time it takes to actually decipher, to understand the full implications of the point the creator is attempting to get across. Most mass produced entertainment is disposable, and there are multiple reasons for this, both nefarious and benign. On the one hand, the megaconglomerates that produce most of the entertainment we consume have an incentive to keep us interested in as many things as possible, so we’ll keep spending money. On the other hand, most of us have such busy lives that we don’t have the time to devote ourselves to contemplating what a capital-A Artist is trying to tell us.

What David Lynch and Mark Frost showed us with the latest iteration of Twin Peaks was that they are in fact real artists, with some poignant things to say about the way we live our lives.

I’m optimistic enough to believe that there is more great art being produced today than at any point in history. In fact, there’s so much great art being produced that I won’t have the opportunity to engage with even a fraction of it. But what is rare is that I find something that actually helps me to understand my place in the world, and to offer an aspirational message that I can overcome my own stupid limitations.

I don’t consider most of what is popular to be great art. Superhero movies, for instance, don’t speak to me on an emotional level, even if I can appreciate the engineering that goes into them. Maybe you consider them to be great art—and that’s okay with me! It only proves my point that there’s a lot of great art out there!

I was wrong about the third season of Twin Peaks. It wasn’t what I wanted, but in a weird way it was actually what I needed.

I’m not sure that I even care, at this point, what actually happened when Agent Cooper and Diane crossed over. That was a choice that Agent Cooper made after coming out of his stupor—once he’d rediscovered himself he made the decision to continue on with his quest to rescue Laura Palmer. In the process, Cooper became another iteration of himself. And that iteration was the type of guy who kicks rednecks in the balls and drops their guns in boiling grease.

He wasn’t the Cooper that we all knew and loved. Who will I become once I’ve finally stuck that fork in the outlet? Who will you become when you evolve?


In addition to be difficult and painful, change is… unpredictable. Great art explores uncomfortable subjects, thoroughly and honestly. The third season of Twin Peaks did that, even if it made me very uncomfortable watching.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Billy Joel's "Piano Man" is full of nightmare visions if you take it literally

When I was a small child, my mother was a huge Billy Joel fan. She listened to his albums just about every single day; as such, I developed a very high tolerance for his music. This tolerance remains with me to this day, at least through An Innocent Man.

But, I had some trouble with some of his songs. I was very literal minded. “Piano Man,” in particular, was problematic for me. That song was full of terrible booby traps that completely befuddled my seven year-old self. The lyrics were… well, if you took the song literally, the lyrics were bizarre, even hateful.

Very early in the song we get the following line:

There’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin.

I knew what “making love” meant. I didn’t see this line as metaphorical, so I thought that the old man was literally making love to a glass with tonic and gin in it. This struck me as something that might happen in a bar in a Steely Dan song (I was and remain a big fan of theirs and spent a lot of time listening to them)—but what in the heck was Billy Joel doing singing about that?

But given the fact that “Captain Jack” appears on the same record, I figured that in fact Mr Joel had “gone there.” Weird. Strange. Disturbing.

Then it gets slightly more disturbing:

He says son can you play me a memory,
I’m not really sure how it goes
But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man’s clothes

Now this is a very poet and elegant (“polegant”) way of saying that the man was younger when he knew the song. But the way my literal mind took it was that he’d stolen the clothes of someone younger, and had worn them, but for some reason he’d forgotten what he’d heard while he was wearing this younger man’s clothes.

That’s just flat-out weird.

Then:

Now Paul is a real estate novelist

Who writes novels about real estate? Is that like a J. K. Huysmans kind of thing? (Full disclosure: I didn’t know who J. K. Huysmans was when I was seven.) Seemed a very niche market to me.

The waitress is practicing politics

Wha—? She’s running for office?

I did understand the “They’re sharing a drink they call loneliness” line, though.

For me, the worst line came very near the end:

And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say, ‘Man, what are you doin’ here?’

That sounded absolutely horrible to me. I didn’t understand that “bread” meant money, that they were tipping him because they liked his playing, and that they were asking him “what are you doin’ here?” because they thought he could do better.

Instead, I thought they hated his playing, and they were stuffing actual bread, as in slices of white bread, into his tip jar to prevent anyone actually tipping him. And that “Man, what are you doin’ here?” was a threatening question. “Why are you here? Why don’t you get out? WE DON’T WANT YOU IN HERE!”


I was afraid for the Piano Man, who was playing in a very bizarre, strange, hateful place, full of menacingly odd people.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

What is wrong with Twin Peaks? The revival is going disastrously, sadly wrong.

Actually, it’s not a total disaster. There’s plenty to like about it. There was a lot of fun to be had watching Cooper escape the Black Lodge, for example. The scene in which we meet Wally Brando was inspired. I liked the scene in which the new Sheriff Truman’s wife ranted about the leak, and the bucket. I liked the glass box in the first few episodes, but I don’t like what they’ve done with the glass box since (basically nothing, except to show an image of Bob Cooper inside it, or something). There were images in the “atomic bomb” sequence that were full of creative energy and life. Matthew Lillard’s Ray Wise-inspired performance as the highly emotional “zone” visitor and accused murderer William Hastings was very good. I always like seeing Jane Adams in anything, and she’s been very good here, but outside of revealing that she performs comedy on open mic nights her character, coroner Constance Talbot, hasn’t had all that much to do.

What does it say about the Twin Peaks revival that the Wally Brando scene has been the best moment so far?

The show is also making some very bad narrative decisions. While the pace is turgid, the storyline is unfocused and undisciplined. It focuses on exactly the wrong or the least interesting aspects of what’s going on—then glosses over the truly interesting stuff. For instance, two episodes ago we learned that Hastings had a BLOG in which he was BLOGGING for crying out loud about ACTUALLY VISITING THE  BLACK LODGE (which he called “the zone” and meeting Major Briggs [“the Major”]). And we learn about this from basically a throw-away line from Albert, who’s reading a report on the discovery of Major Briggs’s decapitated body. Then Agent Tammy Preston talks to him and he tells, not shows, about visiting the Black Lodge, describing meeting the Major in a scene that’s so beautiful and scary—yet we only get his reaction to it, not the scene itself. Lillard breaks down admirably, Leland Palmer-style, but the viewer is still left with the feeling that… we should be seeing this, not hearing about it.

The problem with that lack of narrative focus was compounded by last week’s episode’s visit to the spot where Hastings et al visited “the zone.” Agents Cole, Albert, Preston, and Diane (why oh why did Diane have to turn out to be a real person and not just the name of Cooper’s personal tape recorder???) and Detective Dave Macklay bring Hastings to a run-down, skeevy looking area with dilapidated buildings, dust, and weeds— a perfect spot for Lynch creepiness. Hastings points to the building and Albert and Gordon walk up to it. Then Gordon has a vision.

Wat?

Why would anyone, even Gordon Cole, be able to just walk up to that building and see the Woodsmen standing on a staircase like that? Could anyone just walk up to that spot and see Woodsmen? There’s not much sense that this other place, if it is the Black Lodge, is anything particularly special.

Then a Woodsman sneaks into Macklay’s car and explodes Hastings’ head. Which prompts some dry humor from Lynch, as his Gordon deadpans, “He’s dead.” The scene doesn’t have nearly the impact it should—there’s very little sense of menace—because the viewer never gets the sense that this is grounded in anything other than a desire to explain stuff.

And speaking of explaining stuff… How about that note from Major Briggs? The show was essentially twiddling its thumbs and decided, “Well, things have to move forward now…” and so came up with the note telling the Sheriff, Hawk, and Bobby to go visit a certain place at a certain time. And then Hawk had a scroll (at least Lynch and his co-writer, Mark Frost) had enough cheek to have Hawk say something about the scroll never changing but always being current—it’s what the Native Americans call a Factitious Scroll) revealing that when they go to that place there’s going to be BLACK FIRE for crying out loud. So we have that to look forward to while we…

…Watch Stupor Cooper stumble around and repeat the last few words he’s heard. Over and over. Eventually it’s going to become what? Endearing? Funny?

Stupor Cooper is an annoyance on many levels. In my previous Twin Peaks post, I hoped that Stupor Cooper wouldn’t win the show. So far, unfortunately, he has. This has gone on way too long. First of all, what casino just gives someone over $400K (in cash!) without taking some kind of information from them? Wouldn’t they put the winner’s name and face all over, to help drum up business?

Still not funny.

Beyond that—if you knew someone who was stumbling around in a stupor, who was barely verbal, would you wait three or four days to take them to the hospital, the way Dougie’s wife did? Let’s leave all that stuff aside. Let’s even leave aside the fact that the Stupor Cooper joke has completely worn out (David Lynch’s sense of humor often tends toward “dad jokes” and very dry, deadpan stuff, so I can see why this appealed to him and I can even see having Stupor Cooper for maybe two or three episodes). What really hurts about this is, this is probably the last Twin Peaks we’re going to get, ever.

We’ve gone since 1992 without seeing Cooper. Cooper has been trapped in the Black Lodge for 25 years. And now that he’s back, he’s in a complete stupor?

I want Agent Dale Cooper. I didn’t subscribe to Showtime (seriously, I added Showtime to my Amazon Prime for one reason and one reason only, and it wasn’t so I could watch that documentary about how the Tim Burton-Nicolas Cage Superman movie didn’t get made) to watch my beloved Agent Cooper stumbling around like a moron for—however many episodes it’s been.

And Bob Cooper’s even worse.

Bob was a deeply disturbing creation. Maybe the scariest character ever to appear on network television. Do you remember when Sarah Palmer had that vision of Bob in the second episode of the original series? Damn that was scary. Unfortunately the actor who portrayed Bob has passed away, and the revival has done some interesting and occasionally inspired things to bring him into the storyline.

Now THIS was a scary moment.

But what the show really needed to do was to give us a truly disturbing antagonist. Someone or something that could measure up to Bob. They’ve tried with the Woodsmen, and it hasn’t worked for me. But that would be okay if there was a single force that made us feel like there were actually high stakes involved. A character that you would not, under any circumstances, want to see out of the corner of your eye. I think that’s what they tried to do with Bob Cooper.

They gave the evil Cooper long stringy hair and dressed him vaguely like Bob, but so far it hasn’t come across (they also, at one point when Bob Cooper was in prison, had his mirror image twist slightly so that it became Bob-ish). He can apparently cause sirens to go off in a prison by dialing a few numbers on a phone. He’s got the protection of the Woodsmen, who saved his life after Ray shot him. But none of what we’ve seen captures the sense of dread that the original Bob inspired. This Bob Cooper just seems so uninspired. Even the scene in which he killed Darya felt mundane. It could have appeared in an episode of "Arrow."

When the original Twin Peaks series began the viewers became invested in the proceedings in part because there was a sense that the creators were discovering all this stuff along with us. There was a real sense of wonder to the show. The pace, roughly one day per episode, was such that we had time to process everything that was happening in Twin Peaks. And there was a sense that this was an odd little town with a lot of secrets, most of which were fairly routine (extramarital affairs), tawdry (prostitution, drug-running) and then, eventually… really horrible (incest, child prostitution). Meanwhile we were also learning that there were actual supernatural forces at work, on top of everything else. It’s incredible that they were able to strike a balance so that everything worked together so elegantly.

I cared as much about Pete Martell, Hawk, and Major Briggs as about Agent Cooper and “The Little Man from Another Place” who later came to be known as the Arm. This time around there are no new characters to take their place (do you care about Bobby’s and Shelly’s daughter? How about Beverly?


My friend Michael has suggested that this new revival feels like a fan film to him, and I think that’s an accurate way of looking at it. Lynch and Frost are coming across like a pair of very enthusiastic fans who absorbed all of the events memorized all the characters and their back stories, kept copious notes when Windom Earle told Rusty about the White Lodge and Black Lodge—but did not absorb any of the emotion and heart of the show. This story isn’t doing anything to advance the world of Twin Peaks. It’s so bogged down in trying to explain the mythology (even to the extent that it might have actually presented an “origin” of Bob) that, for all its creativity, it feels hollow and lifeless. There’s nothing here to build on for a potential future series or film or book. It feels like it was put together by a team of Stupor Coopers, just repeating the last few words they heard, over and over again, trying to show what’s going on but in the process forgetting everything that made the original so special in the first place.

Where is Invitation to Love??

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Steve Ditko as Baron Mordo

FYI: This post contains “spoilers” regarding the Doctor Strange movie and the final chapter of Stan Lee and Steve Ditko's famous Eternity storyline. This shouldn’t bother you, as great art can’t be “spoiled” (everyone knows that Macbeth creates Frankenstein’s monster, but that doesn’t stop us from re-reading Gulliver’s Travels) but, regardless, you’ve been warned.

Dr. Strange was the first Marvel movie I’ve watched all the way through since the first Avengers film, which was so terrible, fatuous, and stupid it put me off the MCU entirely, once and for all I thought. I gave Civil War a chance on Netflix, and made it about twenty minutes in—those twenty minutes embodied everything I hated about Marvel movies.

I expected to spend maybe twenty minutes on Dr. Strange, which is also streaming on Netflix. To my astonishment I ended up watching the entire film and actually enjoying it. For a huge budget blockbuster film it actually exhibits some creativity and genuine trippiness. In many ways, although it deviates from the original Lee/Ditko source material, it captures its spirit. The ending, with the confrontation between Dr. Strange and Dormammu was reminiscent of the classic panels from Strange Tales #146, in which Dormammu battled Eternity as Strange dealt with the consequences. It was a lot of fun seeing that brought to life.

How beautiful this is!

The biggest of the movie’s improvements on the original Lee/Ditko source material is the portrayal of Baron Mordo. Actually in the movie he’s not yet a Baron, I guess—they just call him Mordo. It helps first and foremost that the Intellectual Property is embodied by Chiwetel Ejiofor, who has a compelling presence and is a good actor besides. At the start of the movie he’s a faithful follower of the Ancient One and a partner and friend to Strange. But when he learns that the Ancient One has been taking energy from Dormammu’s Dark Dimension, and that faith is shaken. Then, when Strange bends time to trap himself and Dormammu in a Groundhog Day-style loop—despite repeated warnings that YOU SHOULD NEVER MESS WITH TIME—Mordo walks away from Strange. As far as Mordo is concerned, Strange has committed a serious breach and while he might have saved the day this time, his actions could lead to devastating consequences down the line.

Mordo, then, is a rigidly moral and uncompromising man who believes that one should stick to their principles, regardless of the cost.

The reasons why Doctor Strange co-creator Steve Ditko left Marvel are not entirely clear and the source of a great deal of conjecture. In one version Ditko, an Objectivist, didn’t think that Doctor Strange’s mystical world was worth exploring, when there were so many horrible if mundane things happening here in reality, where A should equal A. Another version of the story is that Ditko didn’t appreciate Stan Lee’s re-writing his suggested dialogue on the Spider-Man stories he, Ditko, was plotting and drawing. Ditko, apparently, wanted Spider-Man to be a more aspirational figure, as opposed to a “realistic” one. Ditko believed that heroes should be figures that we look up to, not figures that reflect our own weaknesses.

But remember: in the early 1960s there were no royalties or bonuses for comics creators. Stan Lee, as a "company man," was doing all right for himself. Ditko, as a freelancer, wasn't. And Ditko, seeing his comics creations make tons of money for Marvel, and seeing them be licensed as TV shows, felt he was entitled to a greater cut of the proceeds. He also wanted to be fairly credited for his role in creating the work.

Whatever the specifics, Steve Ditko did not believe he was being treated fairly by Marvel. Rather than compromise his principles, he walked.

Despite the fact that Ditko was a smashing success with Doctor Strange, and, especially, Spider-Man, he left Marvel to strike out on his own, doing work for hire at DC and getting a pittance at Charlton in exchange for full creative control. In fact, Ditko’s material at Charlton featuring Blue Beetle and the Question is among his best work.

I don’t know if the creator’s of the Doctor Strange film had this in mind, but it’s easy to see the similarities between Movie Mordo and Steve Ditko. When Stan Lee I mean Doctor Strange is willing to bend the rule to achieve some success, Mordo sees this not as a success to be savored but as a failure to be ashamed of, and he refuses to play along. Disappointed and disillusioned, he strikes out on his own, to chart his own path.


Steve Ditko has stuck to his own principles throughout his career, unwilling to “cash in” on his past successes. It’s interesting to consider whether or not the filmmakers at Marvel Studios—many of whom surely know their Marvel history—decided to use him as a model for one of Doctor Strange’s top villains.

One of the few recent photos of comics legend Steve Ditko?

Live It Down available now!


Duke Redmond, former professional wrestler, lives a solitary life in Los Angeles in 1976. His body is broken and battered from years of entertaining the masses during wrestling's golden age of the 1950s and '60s, when he wrestled as the flamboyant heel "Duke Continental."

Sara Sota, the widow of Duke's former colleague Larry, known in the ring as "Steele Trapp," asks Duke to look into the circumstances of Larry's death. Duke has no reason to think that Larry's death is anything other than a suicide, because after all, wrestlers don't die of old age, or natural causes. And Duke himself has occasionally thought of putting an end to his own miserable suffering, for which he self-medicates. Nevertheless, Duke begins looking into Larry's death and soon begins uncovering information that suggests maybe Larry didn't go crazy and kill himself.

Then, Duke's niece Honeysuckle shows up unannounced from Iowa, declaring her intention to enroll in classes at UCLA. Duke reluctantly makes room for her in his cramped one-bedroom apartment. But she hasn't come into town to study; she wants to be a dancer. Her attempts to create a new life for herself bring her to the attention of a porno producer who wants to use her in his latest endeavor which will be distributed using the freshest entertainment technology-- videotape.

This is the premise of my crime novel, Live It Down, which is available now for the kindle for $2.99 and print for $8.99. The first chapter is below. If you're interested in professional wrestling, porno, the 1970s, or feeling good all the time, give it a read.

Jose couldn’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t instinctively know that things were totally cracked the fuck up. But every so often and just for the hell of it the world gave him unnecessary verification. This time it was Larry Sota’s suicide that did it. The poor, stupid bastard just could not or would not see that everything doesn’t always fit together the way you think. Look close and you can see the cracks.
James’ and Marco’s deaths weren’t part of any conspiracy. They had nothing to do with Larry or anything Larry might have done and they damn sure didn’t have anything to do with Jose. The only thing all four men had in common was that they’d made the unfortunate decision, in the long ago murky past, to entertain the masses as professional wrestlers. And that decision, made mostly of their own volition, led to many other bad decisions. Decisions that always seemed reasonable and even rational at the time, but were in fact monumentally cracked the fuck up.
Training is hard. You lift weights, you spar, you practice your moves, you perform. Well, your body gets tired and sore, so what do you do? Give it time to recover, or take something to ease the pain and give you a little boost so you can keep going the next day? And while you’re turning that over in your mind you might also want to ask yourself: What are the other guys doing? You know, the guys who are after your spot on the card? That’s right, and if you’ve got any sense at all you’ll take that goddam Dianabol yourself; just enough to keep up. Then maybe a little more, just to get that edge. And you know what, if the Dianabol works that well, imagine what uppers will do for you. Then pretty soon you start to realize that uppers are nice, but what you really need is cocaine, then the cocaine isn’t enough so you try a little heroin—right between the toes so no one can see the telltale marks; this is entertainment for the whole fucking family, you know. And all of that, the drugs plus the alcohol you drink between matches and at the parties is doing nothing but good for you. You don’t even notice the cuts and bruises, the pulled muscles, the concussions. You just keep on, and you and every other poor stupid bastard who came before you thinks it’s never going to end.
Then all of a sudden it does end, and you’re nothing at thirty-five. And those drugs that helped keep you going, easing the pain and speeding your recovery? Turns out those motherfuckers have made your body too old and decrepit to do anything at all. Oh, and those blows to the head that rang your bell and made you see stars? You thought you were just shaking them off, but guess what? They’ve made you too goddam stupid to learn to do anything else.
If James and Marco could be said to have been murdered by anything, it was the lifestyle. By signing on and getting into the business they’d condemned themselves. Wrestlers don’t die of old age. They don’t die of natural causes. There was Artie Haley, whose brain hemorrhaged while he was driving, and he plowed his goddam car into a schoolbus when he was thirty-one. Jeff Parker had a heart attack while sitting on a public toilet, injecting heroin into a vein in his ankle when he was thirty-eight. Danny Marshall got shanked in prison at thirty-five. Joe Masur got it into his head that he could fly, and jumped off the roof of his house when he was thirty-six. Chris Thomas was crushed by an overweight prostitute when he was thirty-three. Eddie Stark had a heart attack while walking up a flight of stairs at forty-six. Poor Lincoln Holler had fallen into a coma five years before, when he was forty.
And now add Larry Sota to the list. Went crazy; completely batshit crazy. Convinced beyond all reason—and totally immune to any sensible argument—that some mysterious someone was out to get him, at fifty. Christ, what took him so long? Fifty is a ripe old age. Comparatively, he was one of the lucky ones. Then he went and proved just how fucked up the world is by tying a noose around his neck—hell, not even a real noose, with a proper goddam loop, but just one half-assed knot (Jose shuddered to think about how painful that must have been, how determined Larry must have been to end his own fucking life when the coroner said that he’d spent at least an hour on that rope; shit, after forty-five minutes wouldn’t you just say, Enough’s enough, I’ll try it again tomorrow?) and ending everything himself.
“I’m gonna die,” he’d said. Poor deluded, batshit crazy Larry (hey; maybe that wasn’t such a bad wrestling name) had called Jose almost out of the blue, after seven years, and slurred “I’m gonna die. You’re gonna die.”
“What’re you talking about, old friend?” Jose had tried to sound comforting, but he knew there was no comforting the man who owned that pathetic voice on the other end of the phone line.
“They got James,” he’d said. “They got Marco.”
Jose had heard about James and Marco. “They died, Larry, but that’s got nothing to do with you.” He’d taken a drink from his can of Pabst.
“It’s because of what we did!” Larry had whined. Deep voice, but the man whined.
“When?”
“That night. The night, it was...” his voice trailed off, vaguely. “Back in Kansas.”
Jose had been in Kansas only four times in his life; the last time was nineteen years before. Half his lifetime before. He’d smiled at the memory.
 “That was an... interesting night,” he’d said.
Larry gasped. “It’s getting us all killed!” he said.
“You can’t really believe that what happened that night has something to do with Jimmy and Marco?”
“He’s doing it in order—”
“Who is ‘he’?”
Larry had ignored Jose’s question. “The order that we went that night. First it was James... Then Marco... Then, oh gawd, it was—”
Jose had heard Larry sobbing on the other end of the line. In response he had laughed lightly. Didn’t want to belittle the poor man, who was obviously batshit crazy, but still. “Larry, you’re letting this get to you. It’s too bad about Jimmy and Marco, but for god’s sake, it’s got nothing to do with you, or with me...”
“You’re after me,” Larry had asserted.
Now Jose really laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “I’m not after you, Larry, my friend. I assure you, I’m not after you.”
But that’s not what Larry had meant. He wasn’t accusing Jose; he was warning him. “They’ll come for me next, and when they do, you get yourself ready,” he’d said.
“Christ, Larry, first it was ‘they,’ then ‘he,’ now it’s back to ‘they,’ which is—”
“I’m getting myself ready,” and Larry’s voice sounded clear for the first time during the call. Cold and calculating, like an accountant toting up column A. “I’ve set up a will. I’m getting everything in order. Talked to my kids for the first time in almost a year. I told my son I love him for the first time—” and the coldness left his voice again, and he was sobbing.
Whether Jose had thought the man was crazy or not—and clearly he was crazy—was beside the point now; Larry was hurting real bad, and there was not one goddam thing Jose could do for him. It made him a little resentful. We’re dying before our time? Wrestlers do not die of old age. He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but goddammit Larry knew that as well as Jose did. None of them would be able to live down their pasts. Try telling me something I don’t already fucking know.
 He’d wished Larry hadn’t called, and he didn’t want to continue the conversation. “Hey, listen, Larry, thanks for the call, and the warning and all that, but I really got to get going now. Why don’t you give me a call later this week?” Maybe when you clear your head and stop with all this insane bullshit. Then: “Maybe we can get together. You’re still up in Pasadena, right?”
“Maybe you can come to my funeral,” Larry had said. “Maybe you’ll get the chance before they hold yours.” The line went dead.
Then, two days later, Larry went dead. For god’s sake, he killed himself. To ensure he wouldn’t die of old age? To pre-empt whatever he thought was coming?
The call to Jose was his fucking suicide note, and Jose hadn’t done anything about it. Not one goddam thing. He could have told someone. He could have called someone. Larry had a wife, maybe he could have called her. Maybe Duke. Hadn’t Duke worked at the VA Hospital for awhile? Might have been able to get Larry some help.
That was why Jose couldn’t bring himself to go to the funeral. Sure as hell wasn’t Jose’s fault, but Jose had a sort of flaw in his character and he felt guilty. Crazy as he was, Larry had reached out to him, but Jose had turned away. Had hung up and finished watching Barnaby Jones, or some bullshit like that, killed off a can of Pabst and then opened another one. Had spared poor batshit crazy Larry about five seconds of thought before going to sleep that night, but didn’t think of him again until he’d gotten the invitation to Larry’s funeral.
He should have told someone about that call. But he didn’t.
Jose didn’t believe that Jimmy and Marco had been killed because of what happened that night in Kansas. He was no psychiatrist, but it seemed obvious to him that Larry must have felt guilty about that for a long time, and Jimmy’s and Marco’s untimely but hardly unexpected deaths had given him an excuse to dig at himself about it. But goddam, there was no reason for that guilt shit. The girl had wanted it. She’d wanted all of them. Lots of girls had hot pants for wrestlers. Today they were called groupies or starfuckers or whatever. Jose couldn’t remember all the strange he’d gotten out on the road. And plenty of them went with more than one guy in one night.
It was true, that night was unique. And that girl was unique. She’d taken on five of them, all by her sweet little self. For Larry’s sake, he cast his mind back. He tried to remember specific details. What about that night, that event, that wild young girl, could have caused Larry so much fucking grief? The answer was simple: Nothing. But to someone who’d had one too many concussions, and taken one too many uppers, that didn’t matter. And if it hadn’t been about that night, Larry would have made it about something else.
But then the night of the funeral Jose got another phone call, and goddammit he just couldn’t help himself. He started to wonder if maybe Larry wasn’t so batshit crazy after all.

Duke Continental's embarassing headshot from 1963 plays an important part in the book.

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