BRIAN LIBBY

Dante's 21st Century Inferno

Last week Valarie and I flew to Las Vegas for her cousin's wedding. We'd been there a couple years ago and had enjoyed the city just for its uniquely surreal and kitschy splendor, even though we had our fill after a day or so. Well, this time it only took us a matter of minutes to run back to our room to hide.

Here's an episode I think crystalizes the city in my mind: three beautiful and fancily-dressed women in high heels were walking near us along The Strip, at about 11:00pm and 95 degrees on a Friday night. Suddenly, one of the women let fly a gigantic belch. I looked toward her to see what she'd do: say "Excuse me," perhaps beg her friends' pardon, maybe even laugh with embarassment at her faux pas. But this woman didn't even bat a single fake eyelash. Nor did her friends feel that rhinocerous-like bellow was remarking upon with even the slightest change in facial expression. (Maybe it was just the Botox.)

Seems fitting, I think, for a city that--at least along The Strip--could have all the money in the world being willingly tossed into its glittering coffers, a host of upscale retailers added to the plethora of chintzy knicknacks, and yet Las Vegas still wouldn't have any class.

In fact, I almost want to reject that this is a real city at all. Sure, it's now home to millions of people and continues to grow rapidly. But where is the city hall? The public library? The park? I know they're all there somewhere amidst all that desert sprawl, but I don't respect a city where you enter its heart and find none of these cultural and societal cornerstones so much as nearby. And no, KFC doesn't count.

To be honest, Valarie and I agreed that night as we walked through casinos from the upscale Venetian to the bargain-basement Imperial Palace, holding out for as long as we could in an outdoor climate not meant for mankind, that we'd rather visit even America's so-called urban armpits than come to Vegas again. Gary, Indiana? Punch my ticket. Newark, New Jersey? I'm there. East St. Louis, Illinois? See you at the airport. At least for all their problems those places actually feel like genuine places. But Vegas feels like one of those fake Hollywood backdrops of a city, where you go past the front facade and see that's all was there. Better yet, Vegas reminds me of the end of The Wizard of Oz, when the pomp and circumstance were exposed for all their hollowness.

Now, I know many people like Las Vegas. Some of them are friends or (to a lesser extent) family whose opinions I often share. If you enjoy Sin City, more power to you. But I feel dirty when I visit Las Vegas, and not because of the porn or drinking or gambling. I have no interest in moralizing -- leave that to the conservatives. As much as The Strip is not my scene, I'd respect that city if there were a place just as recognizable within its borders that was about something else, something that balanced your soul a little bit after too many flashing lights.

The wedding we went to there was the only tonic. First, it was an hour outside of Vegas in the beautiful desert mountain area of Mt. Charleston. Second, Valarie's cousin (the groom) and his new wife are both cops. There are some cities in America, many in fact, where I'm inclined to often sympathize as much with those being arrested as those putting on the cuffs. But to be a cop in Las Vegas is something I admire. Aside from putting people away or preventing crime, they are one of the only symbols I found there that the city was organized with the least bit of collective good in mind.

Tokyo Drifter

Last week I visited Tokyo for the first time and found it to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. Somehow, even with the language and cultural barriers, the city made a lot of sense to me. And like Vincent Vega says of Europe in Pulp Fiction, it's really all about the little differences.

There are the suits, ties and white gloves worn by the taxi drivers; the electronic pushbutton answers for so many tasks; how many women use umbrellas walking in the sun; a channel on my hotel TV devoted entirely to Peanuts cartoons dubbed into Japanese; the moist cloth given as you enter virtually any restaurant; how business casual is eschewed in favor of suits. And so on.

Overall, it may be a cliche to say this, but I was really struck by how civilized Tokyo is despite being among the densest and largest cities in the world. There are a lot of things I love about New York, a city I lived in on and off for seven years, but Tokyo makes NYC feel so much more dirty and rude.

One of the other most moving aspects of my trip was to walk around the city and realize that there did not seem to be a single building in central Tokyo that was built before World War II. I knew the war had destroyed a lot of the city, but it's almost as if Tokyo temporarily ceased to exist by 1945. In saying this I'm not taking issue with America's waging of the war -- they attacked us, after all. But it's still sad, made even more so after I traveled to Kyoto, Japan's ancient capital (which was spared from bombing), and saw the magnificence not only of old Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, but the maze of old streets and residences surrounding them.

A lot of the food I ate was relatively familiar--sushi, tonkatsu, miso, ramen, tempura (hard to go off the beaten path when you don't speak the language)--but as you might expect, in many cases it was the best I've ever tasted. The first night I arrived, the texture of my tempura at a small restaurant in neon-festooned Ginza was just a little flakier and more flavorful.

I'll surely be posting more thoughts about the trip in the days/weeks ahead. Rest assured that Tokyo remains branded on the brain.

Down with the Dynasty

In TV and print media coverage of sports, broadcasters and writers love to talk up every potential for professional sports dynasties, be it those of the 49ers in football during the 80s, Yankees in late 90s baseball, or in a current case, the Lakers in basketball. The assumption is that this is something extra special to behold as a pinnacle of excellence. But as a fan, I get so sick of it.

I like competition, especially when it breeds situations where a number of teams not only can, but do win titles--even those from small markets. And while outright parity can be a bore if no truly great teams are able to come together, it is at least a relief sometimes to not have a case of one rich, big-market team or another continually grabbing the ring year after year.

Granted, my hatred of the Los Angeles Lakers is born from jealousy and resentment. The PortlandTrail Blazers (my team) have suffered a lot of very bitter defeats at their hands. So I'm not exactly objective about this. Nevertheless, I believe Laker titles in this era have long since begun inevitable. (Yes, even though the Spurs won last year.)

First, the Lakers wooed Shaquille O'Neal from Orlando as a free agent, made easier with LA's financial and cultural appeal. But what really brings out the conspiracy theorist in me, is the story of how Kobe Bryant came to Los Angeles.

An article in today's Oregonian by John Canzano recalls the 1996 NBA draft, in which current Blazers general manager John Nash was then the Nets' GM. Nash is from Philadelphia and had heard all about how a 16-year-old kid there was holding his own against Jerry Stackhouse in pickup games. Nash wanted to take Bryant with the 8th pick. But the Lakers also wanted to take Bryant. Allegedly adidas wanted him to be in Los Angeles as well, so as to make their signee a bigger star. Then Bryant's agent began to insist that Kobe would refuse to play anywhere but LA. So Nash was pressured by the Nets into not taking Bryant, which allowed Charlotte to take him at 13 with the intention of trading him to the Lakers for Vlade Divac. Kobe now says he would have played anywhere.

If Nash's version of that story is true, it goes to show that a mild sort of conspiracy theory is actually true. There is no small handful of people pulling the strings in the sports entertainment industry, but in some subtle and not so subtle ways, the system is conducive to teams like the Lakers winning championships. (I'm deliberately setting aside the issue of Kobe's sexual assault trial -- a discussion for another time.)

Now, traditionally I've been a New York Yankees fan, which seems very inconsistent. And it is. But I became a Yankee fan as a child years before I understood their unfair advantage. Does that make me exempt? No, but this was never about questioning whether people had a right to root for those teams for other reasons, such as living in the teams' home cities or an affinity for a particular player. Besides, in a pure basketball sense I love Kobe Bryant's game more than that of any other player. It's just seldom that I can look past the uniform.

Anyway, this is all written an hour after the Lakers came from behind to win Game 2 of this year's Finals. Detroit had a six-point lead with a minute left and choked, letting LA force overtime and eventually losing the game to them. So often it seems the Lakers have been on the ropes over the years, to Portland or Sacramento or San Antonio, and come back to win. And win. And win. And win. Ah, I long for the brief days of Nick Van Excel and Eddie Jones leading LA to a first or second-round playoff exit. A brief respite between Magic and Shaq.

Silver and Bronze Oldies

There's an "oldies" station, as they call it, here in Portland called KISN that I sometimes listen to with about one-fourth joy and three-fourths frustration. Growing up, there was a lot of Fifties and Sixties rock played by my parents. Though I've largely moved on to other music passions, I still have a curiosity and interest in that period. But I'm so sick of hearing the same old hit songs over and over again. When I listen to a song like "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" or "Good Vibrations", it's as if I don't even really hear them. I'm not quite willing to cite the old cliche that familiarity breeds contempt, but there's a kind of numbness their overplaying does to me.

Why can't there be a radio station that plays great early rock that is fresher, and more of a discovery. There are individual community and public radio programs, of course, like KBOO's "Rockaholics Anonymous" in Portland. But I wish there was a station willing to diverge entirely from the rigid industry formula of playing hits in heavy rotation.

When I buy an album by an artist or band with an already long-established hit song, that song is usually of the least interest to me. Of course there are noted exceptions, because sometimes a hit song represents that artist's best work. I'm talking more about songs that may have been singles in their day, yet for one reason or another didn't find their way into the latter-day wave of pop culture nostalgia.

That, incidentally, is something that has always interested me: Why do some songs remain in the forefront while others don't? It's not a matter of quality in my mind. The answer, I think, is more elusive.

The American Friend

A couple months ago I had the opportunity to interview German filmmaker Wim Wenders at his home in Los Angeles. The only memento he had from any of his films was a poster for The American Friend framed and sitting on the floor in a back room. It got me intrigued. I’d seen several of Wenders’ films over the years, such as the masterful Wings of Desire, as well as Kings of the Road, Alice in the Cities, Buena Vista Social Club, and the awful End of Violence. But until last Saturday, I’d never seen 1976’s The American Friend, even though it’s an adaptation of one of my favorite books, Ripley’s Game by Patricia Highsmith.

Although Wenders’ film takes some liberties with the book that Valarie and I were a little perplexed by, I loved the film anyway, largely because of the cast and cinematography. Bruno Ganz was superb as a dying picture framer who agrees to assassinate a mobster in order to earn money for his family. He was almost unrecognizable from his character in Wings of Desire, even though a moustache and a few years of aging were the only difference. Dennis Hopper seemed a very unlikely choice as Tom Ripley (a character who’s also been played by Matt Damon and, in an adaptation of the same book by The Night Porter’s Liliana Cavani, John Malkovich), especially clad in a very un-Ripley-like cowboy hat. But somehow I bought Hopper anyway, perhaps because he was more obviously American, which enhanced Wenders’ juxtaposition of American and European culture, a common theme in his films.

I think the plot of this movie would take a little getting used to for those who haven’t read Ripley’s book, although if you’ve seen Anthony Minghella’s The Talented Mr. Ripley (two books before Ripley’s Game) you have a head start. But like so many great films of the mid-1970s, this movie combines a gorgeous look—at once gritty and beautiful—with a penetrating question of moral ambiguity. The American Friend is now easily my second favorite Wenders film after Wings of Desire.

Enough Starbucks Bashing

A recent cover story in Willamette Week articulated a growing feeling I've had: that the now common gibes against Starbucks Coffee are unfair and hypocritical. I've often criticized large corporations for negatively impacting local businesses and fostering homogeniety of product. But if other corporations got as much flak as Starbucks, Ralph Nader would be president.

People argue that Starbucks stifles local coffee shops. Not true. Studies have shown that Starbucks is actually a point of entry for espresso drinkers: First you try it there, then you're more willing to branch out to individual mom-and-pop stores. And here in Portland, for example, those non-Starbucks coffee bars have grown exponentially in number since Starbucks arrived here in 1991. Others argue that Starbucks takes advantage of unfairly low-waged labor in developing countries. But specialty coffee accounts for only about 7% of the world coffee market. Those who grow and pick coffee for Starbucks are paid no worse than those doing it for, say, Folgers. I do agree that Starbucks contributes to the larger trend of corporate retail homogeneity, but that extends to virtually every type of shopping experience. It's not fair to single out one company, especially when Starbucks happens to be very good at what they do. I love their coffee, to the extent that I'm sometimes quite disappointed when I do go to an independent espresso bar.

I also think Starbucks played a significant role in making the espresso market in the United States what it is today. Less than 15 years ago, it was pretty difficult to find espresso in this country, even the now coffee-obsessed Pacific Northwest. But as soon as Starbucks franchises started popping up here, so did a lot of others.

I'm all for patronizing Starbucks' smaller competitors in the espresso market. But bashing Starbucks is a hollow protest du jour that people obviously haven't thought through. If you want to bash a coporation, there are a lot of far more worthy targets out there, from Walmart to Enron. Have a latte and start there.

Lennon/McCartney

Today I dusted off The Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour for the first time in awhile. Going back and forth between John Lennon and Paul McCartney's songs--the segue from "Strawberry Fields" to "Penny Lane", for example--it really makes me wonder what these guys thought of each other at this point in their careers. McCartney is often unapologetically romantic, owing more to Cole Porter than Elvis, while Lennon is usually more mysterious and gritty. (As I say this, though, it's with hesitation, because I get so sick of them being stereotyped this way.) I know they are listed as co-writers of both their tracks, but clearly each guy was bringing very different songs for the other to see. So did McCartney and Lennon have to mask their skepticism about each other's songs and just try to make them better? Or was each guy really a fan of the other's style?