Nothing In Common

If you would be kind enough, indulge me this week by allowing for tribute to be paid to two American icons who celebrate birthday this Sunday. One is a renaissance man in the field of entertainment; the other, his claim to fame is confined to the arena of sports. Both men I have admiration for in one form or another. Both men have had a certain amount of influence in my life though neither of them know it, nor care to, for that matter. There are other individuals celebrating centennials who are worthy of noting, but bestowing iconic status would be a stretch, though I’ve also been impacted by them.
Corey Hart, for whom my son is named after, is celebrating his birthday Sunday. His name is the same sans the “e.” His hit Sunglasses at Night provided the impetus for passing his name on to my son. Back when disco sucked, The Boss ruled, punk was the rage, and going to clubs to see live bands ruled the day; my mode of attire reflected my embrace of the iconoclastic lifestyle that was so prevalent. I wore dark lens, gold frame, Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses like those which completed Lou Reed’s “look” in the ensemble I Ain’t Gonna Play Sun City video; even at night…indoors. Hence, the symbolism to my son’s given name. Walt Whitman is another who’s got a birthday May 31st.
Whitman, best known for his classic work Leaves of Grass, also fancied the new game of baseball. Besides keeping an amazing, insightful journal describing the horrors of the Civil War that he witnessed as a medic; Whitman had time to pen his feelings about this new form of exercise and competition:
“Well-it’s our game; that’s the chief fact in connection with it: America’s game; it has the snap, go, fling of the American atmosphere; it belongs as much to our institutions, fits into them as significantly as our Constitution’s laws; is just as important in the sum total of our historic life.” One-hundred and forty years later I tend to agree with him. Still he’s only an icon to the learned. Clint Eastwood and Joe Namath have a certain appeal that the everyman can identify with on some level.
Clint will be seventy-nine, same as my father. Namath turns sixty-six. Has it really been forty years since Broadway Joe guaranteed a Super Bowl victory? Has it really been six years since his drunken longing for the lips of ESPN’s Suzy Kolber? But that’s Joe, timeless, his life a series of firsts and trends that separated him from the pack.
Joe shamelessly, was quite a lothario, ironically hailing from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. He made no excuses for his behavior. Joe blew off a handful of baseball teams that offered him a contract right out of high school. Joe promised his mom he’d get a college education. It was tough with a 745 SAT and all, but Alabama let him in, and Paul” Bear” Bryant let him keep his long hair, and white shoes, when everyone else was wearing their hair short, and wore black cleats. He didn’t finish his degree until 2007, sorry mom.
Though Joe Willie Namath, as Howard Cosell liked to call him, played in a run first offense at Alabama; in the pros he threw, and often. He gloated over signing the richest contract ever for a rookie draft choice. But he didn’t sign with the NFL, his calling was the New York Jets of the upstart AFL. While in New York, he passed for over four thousand yards in a twelve game season. He tearfully bemoaned commissioner Pete Rozelle’s edict to sell his Upper West Side Manhattan club Bachelor’s III, a frequent hangout for reputed organized crime figures. He wore fur coats, and later donned pantyhose for a Beautymist ad campaign. The man was comfortable with his masculinity. His performance and presence was a driving force to the merger of the two rival football leagues. He threw more interceptions than touchdown passes, yet made election into the pro football Hall of Fame on the first ballot. He couldn’t act, but got roles in feature films. James Lipton is not going to interview him anytime soon. (see C.C. and Company if you have a shadow of a doubt) He made frequent television appearances though Joe was not terribly witty. America just couldn’t get enough of him. If that qualifies as iconic, Clint Eastwood is a living National treasure.
Clint Eastwood’s career nearly ended before it started when he and Burt Reynolds were fired as day extras. By the time they got to the employee parking lot, the names on their spaces had been removed and in their stead were the names of their replacements, Clu Gulager and Robert Horton.
After a series of B-movies, Clint landed the part of “Rowdy Yates” in TV’s Rawhide. That role catapulted him to Spaghetti Western fame. The “Dirty Harry” made him a global star. He’s appeared in sixty-six films, directed thirty-three, and produced thirty. He has his own movie Malpaso Pictures, his record company bears the same Malpaso moniker. His songs have appeared on the soundtracks of twenty movies. Clint composed and scored five films. He’s won five Oscars, and nominated for many others. He’s won five Golden Globes, and five People’s Choice Awards; one for Favorite all time actor. Clint’s also garnered a Screen Actor’s Guild Award for his body of work. During this illustrious career, he found time to run his Hog’s Breath Inn located in his beloved Carmel-By-The-Sea, where he ran for mayor and won in 1986. Hell, the Gorillaz even have a song named after him. Like Namath, Eastwood’s unrepentant about the life he’s led.
The many kids by multiple wives, the aloofness with the paparazzi, fuck’em if they can’t take a joke. Clint has earned the right to do whatever the fuck he wants if you ask me. Talk about never having to kiss anyone’s ass…ev-er. An icon who’s a renaissance man, America should have more of them.
Clint Eastwood was who I admired while attending acting school. Why not, we’re the same height, the same weight. He was eleven pounds at birth, I was nearly ten. We were both born on a Friday at 7:05. We share the same receding hair line. When I wrote Malpaso and informed them of the things Clint and I had in common, they suggested I stop by the studio to meet him when I was in Hollywood meeting with my new agent, Elna Lawrence. A motorcycle wreck put an end to an end the trip as well the the aspirations concerning acting.
I know this blog is longer than I said it would be. If you don’t like it, tough shit, I can do whatever I want because it’s my birthday on Sunday too.