Charlie Rose

finalfantasytown  02/02/2013 04:07 AM Report

I know why you drag Cooper into this interview, but I don't complate understand why.

antek  01/30/2013 10:19 PM Report

Excuse the length, but of prime importance is the usually long state of depression that leads up to a manic outburst.

In this specific breakdown in the BIPOLAR BUFFALO chapter it is extreme shyness in talking to girls, a brother on his way to Vietnam, a weak sense of self and the strong feeling of being a constant underdog. With apologies to the reader, here is a longer story fragment which makes more sense:

Excerpt from BIPOLAR BUFFALO, chapter # 41, Boxin’ Dancin’, Singin’ in the Rain

I find a reasonably priced, semi-furnished apartment near several fraternity and sorority houses and within a short walk to the Tulane campus. The building has two apartments, separated by a long hallway with a large, unclaimed tuba reposing in the middle of it. I later learn that two female college students occupy the other apartment.

I ask one of my classmates out early in the first semester but the timing is off. She tells me she’s going that weekend to Curacao. I don’t even know where that is until I get a postcard from her saying how wonderful it is. I fail to ask other females out for a date after that first unsuccessful attempt. What’s wrong with me? I ask myself. The girls across the hall do not interest me. I don’t understand why. When our paths cross they seem friendly and eager to know me. Although I greet them when we meet, I don’t engage them in conversation. They’re fairly good looking. What’s wrong with me? ….

Often, when walking to my classes, I see pennies lying in the streets. What’s with discarded pennies in the streets? Someone tells me that students routinely throw them away. I have this thing against spoiled rich kids; I suppose they’re the ones who toss the pennies. One day, after a frat party, I pick up more than a dozen. Routinely, when I walk to school, I pick up all the pennies I see.

Sometimes when I’m gathering pennies, my mind puts me back in a Buffalo bar listening to a touring jazz combo—they’re playing…every time it rains it rains pennies from heaven. But as they play, the lead musician is telling a story about a woman who gets pregnant by a traveling sax player.

“When the baby is born,” he says. “She is named Penny. But questions are asked in the hospital—who’s the father? Where’s this baby from?” At the precise moment that the sax player asks that last question, the band plays the exact chord and loudly shouts out the final three words of the matching lyric:

“Don’t you see each cloud contains … PENNIES FROM HEAVEN!”

Buhdaboom!

A month into the school year I see a posting on a bulletin board. It’s a casting call for the play A Streetcar Named Desire. I could never figure this out. Why did Tennessee Williams pick on the Polish nationality for the lead role? He must have wanted a stereotypically dumb, boorish, bowling, beer drinking, T-shirt wearing Pollock. Stanley Kowalski fills that package to a capital P. How likely is it for a Pollock to be living in New Orleans to begin with? I never think Polish when I think New Orleans.

“Hey, Stan - leeee! Where are you?”

He’s lying in the snow, frozen dead, a block from home. That’s how they find him the next morning—my Uncle Stanley, my Mom’s youngest brother. He was crazy but he didn’t start out that way. When I go to Grandma’s flat as a little kid and turn on the big Philco radio, I see her two soldiers, Leo and Stanley, there on top of the radio. Both are pictured in their WW II navy uniforms, looking young, handsome and sane.

The trouble starts when Stanley, only eighteen, is on shore leave and goes for a drink in a foreign bar. I imagine him being scared—he’s so young, and he’s away from home for the first time. He gets drunk, and so says the government report, unruly. MP’s are called. One hits him mightily over the head with a police club.

That night, that’s when Stanley really dies. He’s a different person afterward, not at all like the U.S. Navy boy in the photo. A lobotomy is performed on him. He comes home from the war and I see him in person for the very first time. I’m five years old. He looks different from that picture above the radio. He looks strange. Part of his forehead is gone. His eyes are in a different world. Occasionally, he has loud freakish outbursts. Only Grandma can handle him when he gets that way. Otherwise, he is subdued and spends his waking hours doing countless crossword puzzles and going to the South Park golf course looking for balls to resell. That is the only Stanley I ever knew—like a dead person still living.

I go to the library and take out A Streetcar Named Desire. I study the Stanley sections. I decide to try out for the play and plan to do the “Stanley” part using a Polish-Stanislavsky method accent. I enter the casting call classroom, look around and see Stanley’s by the dozen. Physically, no one looks Brando enough. I look better than anyone here for that part. I sit down, confident, but as my turn nears, I start losing it.

My voice is not right, it’s too high pitched. Each potential Stanley does his reading. Every one of them sounds impressive. My imagined Polish accent starts to dissolve into Buffaloish. Is pronouncing “dah” for “the” or saying the long sounding "aaah" for “wag” Polish? Or is it only Buffalo speak? Or maybe it’s a hybrid? I’m confused and losing confidence…my voice isn’t right.

Now it’s my turn to face these sitting Stanley’s and deliver. I am expecting to read the famous torn T- shirt “Hey, Stell-lahhh!” sequence. But I’m wrong. With the director reading the part of Stella, I’m to read the Stanley sections from the second scene:

Stanley: What’s all this monkey doings?

It comes out: Whaaats (long a) all dis (Polish or Buffalo “d” for “th”) monkay doins?

Stanley: How about my supper,huh? I’m not going to no Galatoire’s for supper!

It comes out: How bout mah suppar, huh? I’m not go-in tah no Galators fah suppar!

Stanley: Well, isn’t that just dandy!

It comes out: Wa-ell izzent dat jast dandee!

I stop and think. Is this sounding Polish or Buffaloish…or…or…Negroish? I glance to the director on my right, then straight ahead to the room full of Stanley’s. They are listening in confused wonderment. They’re staring that peculiar way at me. It must be a disaster. I can’t continue.

“Thanks,” I mutter as I put the script and my head down and leave. It isn’t Tennessee’s body of work but my spirit that is thin as paper with ribs like a kite, flying out the classroom door that night.

The two neighboring girls catch me in the hallway the next day.

“There’s a pledge party next door tonight, want to take us?”

“Uh, I can’t, there’s something I have to do, but maybe I’ll see you there later.”

As I walk away, I can sense they’re not happy with my words. They seem privileged. I’m sure they’ll do fine. Later, I see them at the party and they ignore me. A fraternity member asks me if I came to pledge.

“No,” I say. “Just here out of curiosity.”

“That’s okay, have a beer, there’s plenty of beer,” he replies cordially.

These rich kids have such nice manners. I drink a beer alone and avoid talking to anyone as best as I can. Everyone around me is mingling and having fun. I just can’t mingle with this crowd—I don’t know what to say or how to say it. They seem to have it all, without any cares. Everything seems so easy to them. I look at their hands, holding beers. These are piano hands; they are soft, without scars, blisters or calluses. I imagine their parents—their manufactured mothers are wearing Cartier on their fingers and their gartered fathers glide their hands into Armani suits. Together they play polo with gloved hands in their leisure hours.

If they’re not fighting in a war, why aren’t these students taking their shift at sweeping the streets of Lincoln pennies, cigarette butts, the spit and piss, dry rice, tree stubs, grasshoppers, green pills, gum wrappers, licorice stick bodies, dead bees, buffalo head nickels, bear nails, flanks from bulls, flints, Indian heads, arrows, scalps, maps and charts that dead end at the Wall Street Museum in the world to come?

I’m sinking. My body is sinking into the floor. A happy rock—Oh, if I could only be a happy rock! I leave the party feeling invisible, and hurry back to my apartment.

More and more, the library becomes my sanctuary. I spend hours there, sitting on the carpeted floor where I have selected a book from the stacks above. I start taking out many books. Books are building a tower, actually twin towers, in my small apartment. I am literally waist high between them in books.

I no longer feel the need for sleep. It’s been at least two, maybe three days, since my head hit the bed. I have not been eating much these last few days either, running out of food but rushing on. No time to shop. I’m eating jelly now, almost exclusively. Like a hummingbird, I suck up grape jelly from a jar as if it were juice. The exotically sweet taste energizes me. I stand still in motion, like a hummingbird hovering.

I put on the Dixieland LP record I bought in Hurricane Betsy’s aftermath, when I saw John Lewis perform live at Preservation Hall. The first cut is “Ice Cream,” with Lewis in a frenzy on his clarinet, and drummer Joe Watkins shouting out the vocals. I’m starting to vibrate more rapidly. My RPM’s are climbing. I’m out of thirty-three and a third mode. I’m reaching seventy-eight revolutions per minute. I’m ready to take flight.

The early evening sun is pouring through the rear window. I’m getting hot. Off go the shoes and socks. Still hot. Off go the shirt and pants. Off go the boxer shorts. I’m naked. Inexplicably, I put my tan khaki slacks back on. It’s all I keep on. I’m bursting with energy. I can’t stay still. My feet start to hum. I’m getting ready to take on Muhammad Ali. I begin shadow boxing in the book-ringed apartment, boxing unseen shadows of mind.

What causes this sudden fighting spirit? Muhammad Ali (formerly known as Cassius Clay and still called that by some), is not a picture postcard hero of mine but he’s somebody I admire and cheer for. Like me, he is young, has fast feet and dabbles in poetry. The big difference between Ali and me is that he has confidence—that and one more thing—he can really box.

Like Dad, I always root for the underdog. It’s appropriate to do that, coming from Buffalo. Clay is the underdog when he first meets Sonny Liston in the World Heavyweight championship battle. He beats the Bear in a TKO to gain the heavyweight title. I remember where I am that day in February of 1964; I’m gassing up my car at a station on the turnpike near the #1 steel plant gate. The memory brands my mind the same way I remember the precise location where I was on the Buffalo campus the previous year, when I first heard that JFK was shot.

I have only one minor connection to organized fighting. In eighth grade, I am a member of Saint Hyacinth’s combination Boxing-Stamp Club. One Christmas, Dad gets professional looking leather boxing gloves for my brother Ray and me so we can learn how to defend ourselves. I have also been collecting stamps since about age ten so the strange combination jives together. The boxing-stamp connection works like this—if you win your match, the priest gives you a new, uncanceled stamp for your collection.

One day, I am pitted against my on–again, off–again friend, Big Bernie Bakko. When we are matched against each other, we happen to be “off-again.” Big Bernie is in an angry mood.

I don’t beat him up, but I hold my own, which is good enough to win the stamp. Maybe the referee, Reverend Hrycinna, feels sorry for always chasing me out of the schoolyard when I sneak in there to play baseball against his rules. I receive a new 1954 three-cent Gadsden Purchase anniversary stamp. The top part shows a piece of land that eventually became the southern parts of Arizona and New Mexico—the land we acquire that one rare time we buy land from Mexico rather than taking it from them.

That same school year, one of my Polish classmates, probably the tallest in our class, with a four letter surname that included a Y and two Z’s, asks me to teach him to box. We go to his basement and while we are sparring, I land one on his chin. It’s not much of a punch, almost a Muhammad Ali phantom punch, but he goes down like an axed aspen tree, slowly, almost gracefully. His stretched out body lays long on the cold floor. He doesn’t respond to my pleas for him to get up, even after some mild revival slaps to his face. I begin to panic, but he finally awakes, groggy, and I begin breathing again. I put my boxing gloves away for good after that.

I’m still imagining Muhammad Ali as my body continues boxing; arms punching apartment air. I’m feelin’ good…moving...and sticking...and feelin’ good. What’s this? I stop. I smell something. I think it is gas. Is someone trying to gas me? The gas jet must be on. The apartment has a gas burning fireplace which I have never used. Someone must have come in and turned it on. Who’s doing this to me? I can smell the fumes coming to overtake me. Who’s trying to kill me?

I rush to the fireplace. I turn the knob, turn it some more, turn it all the way. I resume dance boxing around the piled books. I reset the needle to the beginning of the record. The I Scream jazz plays on. I’m throwing combination punches, quickly zig-zagging my feet. I’ve gone three or four preliminary rounds by now. Something’s still not right. That smell is getting worse. I smell more gas. The apartment is filling up like a gas oven. Where’s it coming from? My mind can’t figure that out...Didn’t I turn that gas knob completely the other way? But I’m still getting gassed.

I’ve got to do something…I’ve got to get out of here…Run! Run! I’ve got to run! I run out of the apartment, down the stairs and into the street.

I run nearly naked to the street. My body runs out of its own skin. Am I me or am I now Muhammad Ali?

I’m me as Muhammad Ali …. No … I am Muhammad Ali.

I’m Muhammad Ali performing as —Gene Kelly—boxin’, dancin’, and singin’ in a rain of pennies:

“Every time it rains, it rains” … (Whap, whap — fists pounding air) … “Pennies from heaven” … (Whap, whap) … “Can’t you see each cloud contains” … (Whap, whap) … “Pennies from heaven.”… (Whap, whap) … “So when you see it thunder” … (Whap, whap) … “Don’t run under a tree” … (Whap, whap) … “There’ll be pennies from heaven”… (Whap, whap) …“For you and me.”… (Whap, whap).

I don’t know how long I’ve been singing or where my dance-boxing has taken me or how long I’ve been sparring air until I see Laurel and Hardy cop figures approaching. I give them a Come and get me signal with my two upraised, clenched hands. The Keystone Cops warily come closer. I now see they are campus security guards. My mind tries warning me. Do these two security guards have weapons as they approach me?

In my delirium, I’m unsure of what their hands are holding. Are they guns, bully-clubs or fluttering white handkerchiefs? I keep dance-boxing and swinging at air. They start coming closer, shouting options I can’t decipher. I shout back. Whatever I have said causes them to separate; they are now approaching me from opposite sides. They’re getting ever closer. I now recognize them because they are unrecognizable. They’re not my enemy. I have no reason to hurt them. I stop boxing. Each cop grabs one of my arms. I let out a loud cry…the cry of an animal when it knows it is cornered, knows it is captured and knows all is finally lost.

I am securely convoyed to their vehicle and placed in the middle of the front seat. I am not shackled. I sense their restlessness, their anxiety about what I might do next. They think I might still harm them. I think they might still harm me. To assure my safety, I rest my head on the shoulder to my right and pretend to fall asleep. From my nearly closed eyes I see a smile of relief on the driver’s face. This is my last image of that day. Did I fall asleep? Was something administered to me during this ride? A ride to where?

I have a long memory gap. A day goes by, perhaps a week, perhaps more. My mind remembers nothing.

My next memory is of riding down an elevator.

antek  01/30/2013 09:42 PM Report

As a bipolar person I feel that Cooper comes close to expressing that emotional breakdown frenzy that I write about in my book BIPOLAR BUFFALO as this excerpt illustrates:

Chapter #41Boxin',Dancin', Singion' in the Rain:

I no longer feel the need for sleep…have not been eating much these last few days either, running out of food but rushing on. No time to shop. I’m eating jelly now, almost exclusively. Like a hummingbird, I suck up grape jelly from a jar as if it were juice. The exotically sweet taste energizes me. I stand still in motion, like a hummingbird hovering.

I put on the Dixieland LP record I bought in Hurricane Betsy’s aftermath…. The first cut is “Ice Cream,” with Lewis in a frenzy on his clarinet…I’m starting to vibrate more rapidly. My RPM’s are climbing. I’m out of thirty-three and a third mode. I’m reaching seventy-eight revolutions per minute. I’m ready to take flight.

… My feet start to hum. I’m getting ready to take on Muhammad Ali. I begin shadow boxing in the book-ringed apartment, boxing unseen shadows of mind.

… I’m still imagining Muhammad Ali as my body continues boxing; arms punching apartment air. I’m feelin’ good…moving...and sticking...and feelin’ good. What’s this? I stop. I smell something. I think it is gas. Is someone trying to gas me? The gas jet must be on. The apartment has a gas burning fireplace which I have never used. Someone must have come in and turned it on. Who’s doing this to me? I can smell the fumes coming to overtake me. Who’s trying to kill me?

I rush to the fireplace. I turn the knob, turn it some more, turn it all the way. I resume dance boxing around the piled books. I reset the needle to the beginning of the record. The I Scream jazz plays on. I’m throwing combination punches, quickly zig-zagging my feet. I’ve gone three or four preliminary rounds by now. Something’s still not right. That smell is getting worse. I smell more gas. The apartment is filling up like a gas oven. Where’s it coming from? My mind can’t figure that out...Didn’t I turn that gas knob completely the other way? But I’m still getting gassed.

I’ve got to do something…I’ve got to get out of here…Run! Run! I’ve got to run! I run out of the apartment, down the stairs and into the street. I run nearly naked to the street. My body runs out of its own skin. Am I me or am I now Muhammad Ali?

I’m me as Muhammad Ali …. No … I am Muhammad Ali.

I’m Muhammad Ali performing as —Gene Kelly—boxin’, dancin’, and singin’ in a rain of pennies:

“Every time it rains, it rains” … (Whap, whap — fists pounding air) … “Pennies from heaven” … (Whap, whap) … “Can’t you see each cloud contains” … (Whap, whap) … “Pennies from heaven.”… (Whap, whap) … “So when you see it thunder” … (Whap, whap) … “Don’t run under a tree” … (Whap, whap) … “There’ll be pennies from heaven”… (Whap, whap) …“For you and me.”… (Whap, whap).

I don’t know how long I’ve been singing or where my dance-boxing has taken me or how long I’ve been sparring air until I see Laurel and Hardy cop figures approaching. I give them a Come and get me signal with my two upraised, clenched hands. The Keystone Cops warily come closer. I now see they are campus security guards. My mind tries warning me. Do these two security guards have weapons as they approach me?

In my delirium, I’m unsure of what their hands are holding. Are they guns, bully-clubs or fluttering white handkerchiefs? I keep dance-boxing and swinging at air. They start coming closer, shouting options I can’t decipher. I shout back. Whatever I have said causes them to separate; they are now approaching me from opposite sides. They’re getting ever closer. I now recognize them because they are unrecognizable. They’re not my enemy. I have no reason to hurt them. I stop boxing. Each cop grabs one of my arms. I let out a loud cry…the cry of an animal when it knows it is cornered, knows it is captured and knows all is finally lost.

SharkswithfrikingLazers  01/30/2013 02:32 PM Report

"Hey sexy lady" . . .

http://tomzine24.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/bradley-cooper.jpg

http://www.crushable.com/2013/01/30/entertainment/bradley-cooper-hot-spin-class/

gangnam style.