NOTES FROM AN EMPTY TABLE
ESSAYS, POEMS, AND STORIES (BUT MOSTLY ESSAYS)
ON CULTURE, CALAMITY, AND CREATING
BY TOM GUZZIO
ON CULTURE, CALAMITY, AND CREATING
BY TOM GUZZIO
 Annie Ryan, via Getty Images I remember a film called Three O’Clock High – mostly because I may have had a crush on Annie Ryan, the female lead. If I remember correctly, the story involves a new high school student – some glowering bully in a leather jacket with a larger than life reputation – deciding to beat up the resident nerd, and said nerd’s attempts to avoid being beaten up. It’s a film that explores and exploits the intricacies of a stereotypical high school trope: there’s gonna be a fight, news of which spreads throughout the school to everyone who breathes air and is not an adult. It reflects the two worlds that exist under a single roof in most schools: the world inhabited by teachers and staff, and the nebulous, dark waters precariously navigated by kids. I’m thinking about this movie because there was a fight at my school recently – a bad one – and an administrator trying to break it up was hit multiple times. So many adults were surprised by the fact that so many kids not only watched and cheered on the fight, but also recorded it on their phones as well. Our principal sent out a thoughtful response about how what happened is not consistent with “our values.” Hm. While I know that my school strives to be a safe place, what happened is a textbook example of how US schools reflect the broader American culture; a culture that has always commodified and capitalized on violence as a spectator sport and a way to solve problems. We do say something when we see something in America, and it’s usually “Fight! Fight! Fight!”  Photo: NECN There’s a large segment of society that applauded the rise of ultimate fighting, and professional slap fighting, just as previous generations celebrated boxing. We bemoan how athletes see their lives and careers shortened by the abuse they take, gasp when that violence spills out of the game and into their personal lives, then applaud these "warriors" week in and week out for laying their bodies on the line for our amusement. As I write this, the tattered flag in front of my school sits at half-mast because of yet another school shooting. We light candles for victims of mass shootings and watch them burn out on the altar of the second amendment. We have no right to wring our hands after we’ve used them to build and applaud the violent institutions we celebrate. It’s disingenuous and hypocritical.  Photo: Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP
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 Photo Credit: Disney Co. Everyone has dreams about falling and flying. My flying dreams are comical because I clumsily flap, flap, flap, gliiiide. Never going too high or too fast, my arms don’t tire. It’s the aerial equivalent of coasting on a kick-scooter. Icarus could have learned from me. My falling dreams happen in the etherous greige between sleep and awake, I slowly roll over from one side to the other to find bed, wall, earth -- I never remember -- replaced by a sudden void reaching past me like a formless, sonic hug. My falling dreams seem to be disconnected from my flying ones. I never flap, flap, flap, faaaaaallll. But I’ve learned there’s a connection. In those flying dreams excitement and risk hit just hard enough to make life interesting, but not so dangerous that I couldn’t survive their impact. It’s controlled and correlated to my actions: I flap and I fly, but never higher than street lamp height on nondescript streets edged by nondescript houses in a nondescript neighborhood. The low cruising altitude lets me see a manageable amount of the world from a distance that’s just as manageable and safe, albeit just a little bit dangerous. What’s most frightening about my falling dreams isn’t that I’m falling, it’s that I can’t see what I’m falling into. There are no houses, no grass or asphalt rising up to meet me. It’s just a black flash into nothingness. Like my flying dreams, the action is still precipitated by my movement. I roll over and I fall, until my blinking eyes and fluttering heart beat me awake. Instead of trying to find out what the dreams say about the dreamer, I’m learning how the dreamer builds the dreams; about how the child I was influences how I fly or fall tonight. As life during COVID edges into a monotony that matches the Monopoly houses in my flying dreams, I understand how my need for safety – now and then – has been shaped by a broken frame. I was a kid who rebelled to, not against religion. My parents’ materialism and drug use drove me to church. My stepfather’s empty cocaine vials and my Sundays spent at worship became leverage when he would try to ground me for leaving the house with my bed unmade. When as a college freshman I fell out with the church, I didn’t cast myself as an Animal House extra, I got married at 19. Flap, flap, flap. Throwing myself into religion when other people my age were throwing footballs and standing up to say “I do” when I should’ve been doing keg-stands didn’t seem like falling at the time. I’ve told myself they were choices meant to give me anchors my childhood didn’t provide, but even that’s not right. I was a kid trying to build an identity out of a void I was afraid to fall into. I’m starting to get to know my inner child. I’m trying to understand who he is so I can give him the love and guidance he may have lacked and needed that I still need today. I’m going to find out who I was then, before parents and pastors and my own choices as a young adult left him awkwardly hovering over monotonous suburban streets when he should have been dreaming of jetpacks. writing is a swordfish desperate for catch and release its rostrum dipped in ink not mightier than but equal to college drowning in small pools filled with shimmering fry searching for open oceans from which to speak and stand on ecstasy at Coachella with thirsty holograms swimming through smoke and sweat like Pac twelve years dead and gone and live on stage waiting for the next universe  This is the second and final entry in a series inspired by a short road trip through Michigan my wife and I took this past summer. For Part 1 click here. We arrived in Detroit the same way we arrived in Suttons Bay: tired, hungry, and in an SUV built in Indiana by a foreign-owned company. We were staying at the Siren Hotel just downtown, and after we dropped off our car and our bags, we drifted into the neighborhood in search of food. Detroit bore the weight of COVID, just like everyplace else we had been. There were a few closed and vacant stores, and the People Mover was shut down. Despite the pandemic and the economic crisis the city had endured prior to it, there was some vibrance about Detroit. Ford Field, Little Caesars Arena, and Comerica Park were all within view, bringing fans of the Lions, Red Wings, Pistons, and Tigers -- and their wallets -- to downtown Detroit year-round. Stevie Wonder watched over us from the side of the Music Hall Center for the Performing Arts -- just one of the many pieces of public art we saw during our short stay. That first night we wound up at a place reminiscent of Hop Lot in Suttons Bay. The Brakeman was an indoor beer garden with foosball, shuffleboard, and beer pong tables that served regional drafts along with cocktails. Hungry people like us could also get delicious chicken and biscuits from its adjoining neighbor, Penny Red’s. The Brakeman sold tokens at a converted ticket booth you would then use to pay for drinks, which was a little strange to me, and the inconvenience of it outweighed any novelty it initially offered. The tired, road-weary me would much rather have dealt with one point of purchase, but just like at Hop Lot, the good food and strong drinks would see me judging less and enjoying more as the evening wore on. As we waited for our meal, we noticed a smart looking middle-aged couple at a nearby table wearing matching shirts: his reading “I have everything I need” and hers proclaiming “I am everything.” The music was a mix of 80s new wave and soul, but in my head I heard Marvin and Tammi singing “You’re All I Need to Get By” as I settled in next to Cecily. It was another sparkling pinnacle point sharpened by the time we spent without such moments during the pandemic’s peak.
We went back to the Siren, and finished things off with some perfect pie at Karl’s, a fifties-style restaurant housed within. The warm glow of these glittering bokeh scenes was too devoid of people for a Friday evening after a Tigers game. This was probably an indication of COVID’s lasting reach, but also of Detroit’s struggle to emerge from the chrysalis of what it once was. The automobile and the industry that spawned it transformed Detroit from 285,000 people in 1900 to over 2 million people at its peak in 1950. Since then, the city has lost 60% of its population and much of the auto industry. Our hotel was symbolic of Detroit’s desire to invert its story arc. Before it was reborn as the Siren Hotel in 2018, 1509 Broadway was the mighty Wurlitzer Building. The musical instrument, jukebox, and radio manufacturer opened the building in 1926, and would remain its principal occupant for over 40 years. The building’s slow and steady decline at the hands of negligent, often absent owners started in the 70s, and by the time Ash Hotels got involved in 2015 the building was abandoned, falling down, and being gutted for parts. Ash did an amazing job of rescuing and restoring the building, while creating spaces that called people back to the city. We were among those that heard the call. The Siren deftly mixes modern amenities in a building that has seen its former glory restored. Our room was comfortable, and well appointed, but one thing really stood out: this strange, faded painting of an old woman. Who was she? Why was her picture in our room? Would we manage to sleep (or to do anything else) with her eyes glaring from across the room?  When we woke up it was sleep - 1, anything else - 0. The old lady was a strict chaperone. I think both of us gave her dirty looks as we got ready for our day at the Detroit Institute of Art. This was the main reason for our visit. I had known nothing about this museum, but Cecily had wanted to see it for years as it was supposed to have a fairly formidable, world-class collection. Despite Detroit’s struggles, which must have impacted the museum, it still held many valuable pieces past the time when other museums were selling objects just to stay aloft. But first we needed coffee. Ashe Supply Co. was a cafe and roastery just steps from the Siren, but it was closed during our visit as a result of COVID. We ended up at Madcap Coffee just around the corner. Madcap is based in Grand Rapids. It opened its Detroit location roughly a year before the pandemic hit, and it seems to be surviving, even though business was light when we stopped in on Friday morning. These dueling coffee roasters within easy walking distance of one another, and the many murals we passed moving between them says something about the level of gentrification in downtown Detroit. Indeed, a quick Google search shows at least seven coffee roasters (not just shops) within the Detroit metro area. Hipsters love coffee and street art! We took our coffee back to the hotel and texted the valet to bring our car about. The concierge at the Siren told us it would be easier to drive to the museum than it would be to try and catch a bus. As we waited for the car to come, we noticed an older couple trying to cram an awful lot of stuff into their Prius, including coolers, sleeping bags, and other camping gear. We got to chatting, and I learned that they were on a road trip, and that they didn’t want to leave things they obviously wouldn’t need at the hotel (like a camp stove) in their car at the garage because, “Well… You know…” Didn’t they get the memo? Detroit was hip and safe now. Couldn’t they smell the coffee? We had a short window at the museum as hours were reduced due to COVID. Cecily was an art history major, and when we go to a museum, we GO to the museum, taking it all in, and there was a lot to see at the DIA. The museum features a broad range of work from highly influential artists, including Rodin, Rembrandt, Belini, Matisse, Van Gogh (including some iconic portraits), Warhol, Monet, Degas, Munch, Kandinsky, Cezanne, and Wiley. It literally has something for everyone. We started our visit by learning about Robert Blackburn and Modern American Printmaking. Blackburn was an artist and teacher whose presence served to bridge the Harlem Renaissance and the Black Arts Movement, and it was fascinating to learn about and celebrate the evolution of the man and his work. We would eventually move through the rest of the building as if on roller skates, making sure to hit the proverbial highlights.
Because we didn’t know if or when we’d be back again, we took our time with Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry Murals. Rivera considered these frescos to be his masterpiece. I think they rival -- or at least parallel -- the Sistine Chapel (yes, I said it). Like much of the museum's vast collection, Rivera was lured to the city by Ford money, having been commissioned by Edsel Ford at the behest of museum director William Valentiner. The avowed communist and Henry Ford, the founder of industrial capitalism, had one thing in common: the belief in the God-like ability of technology to transform and transcend. Spanning 27 panels across four massive walls in the museum's Garden Courtyard, Rivera crafted scenes that would marvel and confound. He created a condensed, yet technically accurate ode to the work performed by workers at Ford's massive River Rouge plant, even depicting tourists who would come to the plant to see vehicles snake through its two-mile long assembly line. He praised the promise of a brotherhood of man united around industry while craftily acknowledging the commodification and exploitation of this labor under the watchful eye of an engineer whose visage is said to be a combination of Henry Ford and Thomas Edison. Industry's, and therefore humanity's potential for good or bad is seen in opposing panels on the North Wall dedicated to chemistry. The left corner sees the industrial manufacture of chemical weapons, while a beatific (and controversial) baby receives life-saving vaccines on the wall's right side. My words or the pictures I took can't do Rivera's work justice, and the following video flattens its grandeur while giving you a sense of what Rivera accomplished. It's included here just to tease you. For a more comprehensive study of the murals, the cosmology Rivera created with them, and the controversy they generated, get your hands on Linda Bank Downs' Diego Rivera: The Detroit Industry Murals . Then go to Detroit, stand in that courtyard, talk to a docent, and breath it all deeply down. While Rivera's murals frame and fix Detroit's former glory in plaster, another exhibit at the museum unintentionally channels the city's demise. Detroit Style: Car Design in the Motor City, 1950-2020 showcases the auto industry's creativity and innovation, and highlights the interplay between making art and making automobiles. The show features 12 iconic concept and production models from various Detroit auto makers, 36 works on paper highlighting the design process, and 7 pieces of artwork inspired by cars. As Cecily and I moved through the exhibit, we noticed a turning point where the designers reached for past glory by creating newer versions of classic models, like Ford's 2002 GT concept and its 2017 GT. This "drawing from the past," while, "looking to the future" continues to celebrate an industry that essentially abandoned the city it helped build, and in that abandonment ensured Detroit's fall from the hilltop. Continued labor unrest at the River Rouge plant was one of the reasons Ford Motor Co. decentralized its production process; which, over time, saw factories move further west and farther south. What remains of the industry and the city as a whole is a culture that, like the hotel we stayed at, screams the past into the face of a tumultuous present and an uncertain future. It is urban planning propelled by irony. The fact that we ended our final full day in Detroit at Cliff Bell's, a jazz club first opened in 1935, listening to another Diego Rivera -- this one an award winning saxophonist and composer -- was both wonderful and sadly fitting.
Car culture was perfected in California but it was born in Detroit, just as soul music was born in the Delta but perfected at 2648 West Grand Boulevard a few miles away from the Siren. Everything that made America great in that red, MAGA hat wearing sense could be seen in Motor City. During World War II Detroit was “The Arsenal of Democracy,” serving as the armorer for the Greatest Generation in its battle against Fascism and Imperialism. It also produced racism and redlining; redistricting and riots. The brotherhood the mural-making Rivera hoped industry would birth never emerged when this city was young and formidable. A place with the potential to be eternal became a punchline -- a dangerous city marked by disarray, damage, and disrepair. Detroit was largest US city ever to file for bankruptcy, and is America's most segregated. It was rightfully accused of violating human rights by the United Nations. 40% of the streetlights don't work, there are over 70,000 abandoned homes, and 25,000 vacant lots. I doubt we would let this happen to a city that has given us so much if it wasn't nearly 80% black.  Stephen Henderson said in the documentary The United States of Detroit that the city “is a place for the brave or the foolish… and maybe a little bit of both.” I always feel a bit foolish, and if the absence of fear equals bravery, then I guess I was brave during my short time moving in and around Detroit. I wish I saw more. I wish we had made it to Keyworth Stadium, where Detroit City FC is building a team and a fanbase from the ground up. I wish we had stopped by the Michigan Urban Farming Initiative and bought vegetables raised by residents who cultivated crops on abandoned lots. It's clear that a new Detroit is coming. Whether it's one that accepts the wholeness of its past -- the rust with the chrome -- or simply continues to serve the part at the expense of the whole remains to be seen. This is true of America. Everything about this nation's past, present, and future is wrapped up in what I saw during my six days in Michigan, and what I learned about the places I visited after I returned home. It's all connected by the same gleaming alabaster thread that joins two Diegos through time and distance. I fell in love with Suttons Bay on a bike trail just as I embraced Detroit on two feet, and explored Michigan on four wheels. The thoroughfares of freedom carved out of the wilderness by our forebearers wind through places divided into shades of red and blue and black and white, They are cracks in our nation's foundation half-heartedly repaired with a three-fifths mixture of freedom, oppression, and denial. If Suttons Bay, Detroit, Michigan as a state, and America as a nation, can ever be truly great, we must own this foundation, tear it down, and start again.
Lots of minor SPOILERS ahead. This piece is definitely for people who've watched both seasons. It’s hard for me to write about Ted Lasso. So many others have delivered skillfully written think pieces detailing what’s right or wrong about the show, like how it serves as a balm for what’s ailing a COVID-ravaged and divided America, or how it reinforces the power of Ted’s white male privilege and fails to amplify LGBTQIA voices. Such articles make my words feel small and redundant, especially since I first tuned in to the show for less lofty reasons. The idea of a folksy yet clueless American football coach rubbing up against English football culture just seemed like a good laugh. I remembered the original promos Jason Sudeikis shot for NBC when they inked the US broadcast rights to the English Premier League in 2013. The mammoth potential to send up two very different but equally ridiculous versions of “football” culture stayed with Sudeikis and seemed too good to not flesh out. Those absurd moments hilariously came to pass in the show, but as the cartoon characters filling the screen began brushing up against one another, it was clear that the creatives behind the scenes were reaching for something deeper: so much so that I’ve found myself laughing, crying, and even thinking during its run right along with millions of others. Ted’s earnest sincerity won the hearts and minds of the show’s other characters while being an aspirational touchstone during the COVID shitstorm that was America in 2020. Every time he brought Rebecca biscuits (cookies in ‘Murica), shrugged off being a “wanker,” and called on his players to “believe” he was reinforcing the ideals we wanted to see in the world -- from our leaders, even -- but that were absent in the moment. But where does a protagonist go when his antagonists are no longer antagonistic? Ted succeeded in helping other characters become better people just as he was falling apart. This is where the show lives for me, and probably for a lot of people. Though finally copped to in full in “No Weddings and a Funeral” (Episode 10, Season 2), Ted Lasso has always been about parents and children. Initially, what we see regarding parenting in Ted Lasso is just thumbnails, not photographs, done quickly to capture and convey an impression in service of conflict and character development -- like when Ted calls home in the pilot episode. The brief exchange Ted shares with his wife and son lets us know that part of Ted’s journey will involve balancing long-distance fatherhood against an incredibly demanding job he is hilariously unqualified for while trying to save a marriage he doesn’t want to end. The poignancy of this scene is brilliantly soundtracked against “Opus 26” by Dustin O’Halloran, but I might have played Jamie T’s version of The Replacements’ “Bastards of Young.” The opening line -- “God, what a mess…” seems to capture the gravity of the moment and the premise of the show, while also solidly connecting to issues Ted has with his father. Later we learn that Ted’s tenacious optimism stems from losing his father to depression and suicide. He is determined not to quit -- on his players, his marriage, his friends, or his life. Like Ted, many of the characters can trace their struggles to the universal need to define ourselves against and apart from our parents, or to be the people they hope us to become. Getting star player Jamie Tartt (“doo-dooo-do-do-do-doo”) to play the sort of football that puts the team’s success ahead of his own glory is another arc directly related to fatherhood. Jamie’s father James stands as Dick Dastardly to Ted’s Peter Perfect, and in coaching Jamie to “make the extra pass” Ted is really asking Jamie to disobey his father. Owner Rebecca Whelton’s need to tear down the team her ex-husband loves so much can be seen not only as an attack against his unfaithfulness, but also against her father’s infidelity and her mother’s acceptance of it. Nate Shelley’s rise from bullied kitman to a (somewhat) confident coach only happens when he ditches the humble, unassuming persona crafted by his parents and bluntly calls out Richmond players. He completes his arc towards villainy in this season's finale when he confronts Ted and rejects the Lasso Way. He moves on to Rupert as a role model because for Nate, "the ones who love us least are the ones we die to please." Sam Obisanya puts his role on the team in jeopardy after a text from his father pointing out a sponsor’s role in Nigerian corruption and environmental exploitation inspires Sam to protest. Roy Kent, whose signature lines are “Fuuuuuuck” and a cross between a grunt and a growl, lovingly stands as a surrogate father to his niece Phoebe. He comes to realize that his professional life after football carries little meaning unless he is passing his knowledge of the game on to younger players. It is Roy, Jamie’s foil in season 1, who steps in to comfort Jamie when Tartt’s anger at his father boils over into violence. In all of these examples the show is not just comedically sending up sports culture, but critically inverting the masculine expectations of that culture; and, by extension, fatherhood itself.  The author, before he learned the truth about Dubai Air. All of us need a Doctor Sharon to help us unravel our issues with our parents. My dad was absent, but in his absence he was no less an influence. Much of my adolescence saw me reaching to connect with possible stand-ins -- something grown-up Nate seems to be doing -- as I longed for the attention my dad took from me when I was six. When I became a father myself, I worked to be the inverse of the negative he left undeveloped in my psyche; even as my marriage fell apart shortly after my daughter was born. I also tried to run, but the weight of my father’s absence in my life kept me nearer to my daughter. It becomes clear that Ted’s choice to leave his family back in the States is motivated by personal reasons as much as professional ones, and that choice gives the show’s absurd premise unexpected sharpness that cuts deeper as the show progresses. Like the Greyhounds, Ted’s role as “husband” is relegated by the first season’s end, and while he tearfully resigns as husband just as he later offers to resign as coach, we know Ted will never step away from being Henry’s dad. This is the better path he plots for his son, and the example he sets for his players and for the very real men watching the show. In loving Michelle enough to let her go, Ted shows Henry that true love is selfless. Even if it hurts. It stands in sharp contrast to James Tartt and to every real story about a controlling male athlete or abusive male coach. It also serves to drive the show’s acclaim and criticism, at least to some extent. "Carol of the Bells," the controversial Christmas episode works because it shows people being buoyed by the loving presence of others -- something we all long for even if we may be too jaded to admit it. Ted’s disconsolation at being away from his son on Christmas is eased by Rebecca as they play Secret Santa for children in need. Roy and Keely help Phoebe in an arc that sees them help her and a bully at school be better. Meanwhile a stream of Richmond players make their way to the Higgins family home. It is the bumbling Leslie Higgins, who is probably less qualified for his role as Director of Football Operations than Ted is as manager, who represents the show’s best father figure. No doubt, even his seemingly well-adjusted children are destined to struggle against their perceptions of their parents’ expectations or shortcomings. It’s the caring community, so sweetly presented to those kids in this episode -- and the hope that comes with it -- that Ted Lasso fans love. In this sense, criticism of the show’s lack of representation is valid. I have faith that Ted Lasso will introduce a character who is a member of the LGBTQIA community, though some suspect they already have (#ColinHughes). When that happens it will be controversial and polarizing, and perfect in its imperfection. It’s a challenge to give ANY sitcom character three-dimensions, and the male sports world is not known to be the most welcoming of places. The basic premise of professional athletics is rooted in the traditional, often toxic norms of fathering and fostering masculinity (to the detriment of female athletes whose growing success challenges those norms). While AFC Richmond is a fictional pro sports team, it is still a product of this reality (which Nate embraces in Vaderesque fashion). It's Ted Lasso's inversion of those ideals that I stay tethered to and want to see in my world. All of us -- even people who don’t like the show -- are Richmond til we die, the sons of no one, and we all want a seat at that surfboard. |
