A Celebration of Independence
LOS ANGELES — When did you first feel like you were a free and independent person? What was that feeling like? Was it when you turned 18 and went and bought cigarettes or lottery tickets or porn at the corner store? Was it when you went away to college and had a boy or girl sleep over in your dorm room? Was it when you turned 21 and bought booze for the first time? Or when you got your first car or learned how to cook or when you finally stopped sharing a room with your sibling? When you got your first job and had your own money? Do you still not feel independent? Does some form of tyranny still rule over your world? Don’t let it.
Thursday is the 4th of July. The biggest party and most important day in our country’s history, when we officially said to Great Britian, “no thanks, we got this from here” and started on this journey of becoming a unified nation; 237 years of work, and counting. We’re not perfect – no country is, but we’re trying (aren’t we?). I mean, look at all the cool stuff we can do and have that others don’t: meatlovers pizzas and 24-hour tattoos parlors, water parks and waffle ice cream cones, and that’s just what I can think of this second while I watch some instant movie on my buddy’s Netflix account. Hundreds of years ago, we needed maps and horses to get around, now there are cars that park themselves and pocket GPS devices that double as telephones and Angry Bird Tweet machines.
Does that make us more independent? Sure, why not. Freedom is a wonderful thing when it’s not abused. Thursday, millions of Americans will exercise their freedom to consume grilled and smoked meat by the poundful, suck down Budweiser and Coors by the gallonful, and argue with friends in the backyard over proper Corn Hole scoring. Apple pie and vanilla ice cream will wash it all down while everyone gathers in front of their flat screens to watch Will Smith and Bill Pullman save the world from aliens.
Today is our Independence Day, and while John Hancock and Thomas Jefferson aren’t walking through that door, if they did, the fathers of our nation might feel a bit lost. And that’s OK. Change is good and we’re becoming more free and independent by the day, which is what the signers of the Declaration would’ve wanted.
Wait, don’t answer that, the Hot Dog Eating Contest is on.
Happy 4th, everyone! Now go watch some fireworks!
James Gandolfini: 1961-2013
LOS ANGELES — The first time I ever saw “The Sopranos” was in the Spring of 2001. The show was leading into its third season, and as customary, HBO was replaying Season 2 every Sunday night as a buildup. I got hooked by my dorm neighbor and great friend, Rich Kiss, who like the Sopranos themselves, hailed from New Jersey. He was a junkie for the mobster hit and I figured, if he liked it, then I would, too. One of the first episodes I remember seeing was the one where Janice kills Richie Aprile. Blown away a semi-main character would just be offed like that, I turned to Rich in disbelief and he looked at me and said, “that happens ALL THE TIME!” Of course, he knew what was coming at Season 2’s end, but when Big Pussy met the fishes, let’s just say I was the one who had trouble sleeping for a few days.
And I was forever hooked.
It wasn’t the violence that intrigued me about “The Sopranos,” however, it was the performances. They were unlike anything on television, and the actors, writers and producers knew that as much as we did. (I couldn’t even begin to tell you what else I was watching on television at this point outside of “SportsCenter.” Probably “Survivor” or Craig Kilborn.) ‘Sopranos’ was edgy. Gratuitous with its swearing and excess, and hilarious with its rough dialogue. These guys were gangsters but real people with surprisingly normal problems. They argued with their wives, their kids were a pain in the ass, and their troubles on the job always came home with them. Sure, they talked funny and dressed gaudy but we kinda liked them, even though we hated them.
At the center of it all was Tony, played to perfection by James Gandolfini, whom the world was shocked to learn died Wednesday at age 51 while on vacation in Italy. Larger than life, commanding of your undivided attention whenever he appeared on screen, and surprisingly sympathetic as the ruthless and murderous lead of the show, Galdolfini consumed the role, swallowed it whole and spit out pure gold. He made you root for the bad guy and almost had you feeling guilty when you didn’t. (One of the best illustrations of this is in the show itself, when Agent Harris, a longtime nemesis of Tony, cheered out after learning of Phil Leotardo’s death, “we’re gonna win this thing!”) Gandolfini made wanting evil to triumph cool. Make no mistake, Tony Soprano is one of the baddest men in television history, yet because of Gandolfini’s weekly performance, you wanted him to come out on top. You wanted him to finally find peace and that loving relationship with his family, to get past the panic attacks, to defeat New York. You wanted those things and you looked coldly the other way when he stepped out of bounds from time to time.
Certainly no one looked like him on television, which was another part of his appeal – he was big and balding, not exactly leading man looks – and no one could cuss like him. I’d argue he brought back creative cursing. What fun it must’ve been to write those scenes in which he went off the deep end with Carmela or Christopher or Paulie or the poor bartender at the Bada Bing, and then watch Gandolfini flawlessly execute them.
All this paved the way for characters like Don Draper and Walter White and Vic Mackey and Dexter Morgan and all the rest of our cable anti-heroes who lead questionable lives but whom we all want to see come out squeaky clean in the end. The power of the individual performance allowed not only “The Sopranos” but the rest to take big chances and change how we consumed television. It allowed Showtime to take a chance on an anti-hero, and FX and AMC and Netflix to do the same. It made Sunday nights the must-see TV night. Think about all your favorite shows… they all air on Sunday nights. That’s because of the power and the emotion and the rage and the ability of James Gandolfini, of what he did every Sunday night on HBO for 86 episodes.
He was truly amazing.
So much was written Wednesday about the man and it was all incredibly moving and tugged at your heart strings. By all accounts Gandolfini was a gentle giant who never forgot a face or an encounter, no matter how small, and made everyone feel as if they were the most important person in the room. These reflections couldn’t have been more refreshing to read. Someone who achieved his level of fame could’ve easily acted differently and no one would look the other way. Just goes shows the type of man he was and the legacy he leaves behind.
I spent any free time Wednesday watching old ‘Sopranos’ clips, thinking about his other flawless cinematic performances, and reading countless lists and reflections about the man, A co-worker and I even went and ate Italian for dinner at a place called “Godfathers,” which even had a painting on the wall inside of Tony and his crew. Just seemed like the right thing to do. And who could forget my old 1999 Chevy Tahoe, which I aptly called “Stugots” after Tony’s boat on the show. I told my buddy, Jay, that it was a night like Wednesday night I wish I still had Stugots, so I could just take a drive and pretend I was Tony Soprano huffing up the driveway one last time.
Rest In Peace, James.