3 Women / Hoop Dreams

So I'm alone, but I'm never alone. I'm never bored, but I'm not fulfilled. I'm sedated, but still longing. Like Alma Garret in the early episodes of Deadwood.

Movies have always been the more intimidating prospect. Single serving. Not that they can't be rewatched. But they exist in such a finite space within the universe. They lack the suburban sprawl of television. Being from Princeton. That's to blame. That's why I prefer television to movies. At least it was.

Adam, Adam Friedland Adam, has critiqued my obsession with TV for a few years. There are exceptions—The Sopranos, Arsenal, Peep Show, Larry Sanders, Louie—but they are just that. That was usually followed up with something about television being gay and movies being cool and art. I don't know. But Adam has taste and good opinions. Check out his appearance on Posteratati. Perhaps I should listen more. Two ears, one mouth.

At the Metrograph last night, Cesca and I went to see 3 Women (1977) by Robert Altman. I wanted to see Jacob's Ladder but Cesca made it clear that she loved Altman. He was her favorite director. This was the first I was hearing of this, of course. But I didn't have a good argument against it. So I agreed.

The Metrograph is special. Not because it's in Dimes Square, though that did once factor in to my thinking. Those were times (maybe 6 or 7) filled with dinners and drinks with Anna Khachiyan, the somewhat notorious co-host of the pop-culture podcast Red Scare, and chasing down updated drafts from Honor Levy, a sought-after writing talent, on her first book, "My First Book."

Honor is a huge talent and her words are, as I told her, edgy, elegant and empathetic. But she was terrible to work with. Having a crush on her probably didn't help. I was young and hadn't met someone like her before.

That feels like a lifetime ago. As does the night I had with Sean Fennessey at that downtown theatre, years ago. Sean is a writer, featured in Pitchfork, Grantland and other places, but more famously now a broadcaster for The Ringer across many shows, notably The Big Picture and The Rewatchables, reaching the status of Pop pop-culture critic.

At that point, sometime in the Spring of 2022, I was in my first year as an assistant at CAA. I had lots of ambition and I wasn't afraid of anything. Bored with the day-to-day squeak of scheduling and re-scheduling, I began to take initiative, emailing the heroes of my adolescence with my @caa.com address. This would grant me access, I figured, if the note was compelling enough.

Before I started at the agency, Christina McGinnis, the "mother" of Broadway Video, Lorne Michaels Production Company, told me that, "flattery will get you everywhere." I had gotten a meeting with her through an introduction from a Wesleyan alum. Christina was absolutely correct.

But the line between flattery and sycophancy is thin. Straddling it requires a confidence. Making that confidence transmit in a cold email can be tricky. People are far more likely to help someone they believe will succeed regardless of whether they lift a finger.

I emailed Sean telling him of his importance to my view on the world. The through-line was this: you gave words to the feelings I didn't yet know how to express, and for that I am forever in your debt.

He responded, naturally, and we began a correspondence, trading emails and ultimately having a couple zoom meetings where I introduced myself, told him of my intentions to become an agent, and my desire to one day work together in some capacity. A book was my main suggestion. He seemed to like the idea.

Somehow or another, I found out he was going to be in New York. I took this as my opportunity to get a face-to-face meeting. Sean agreed. We were to meet at the Metrograph for a drink. And we did. And it was fun. I was a bit nervous. I don't remember what we talked about. But we had two or three drinks each, on his tab, and had a nice conversation. I had never been to the Metrograph before. But it was Sean's spot. When he lived in New York, he'd go all the time, he told me.

After Cesca and I got seated I reminded her that I had my weed pen on me. That excited her. She promptly asked I pass it over, which I did, and then explained to me that I would need to take short rips and inhale them deeply before slowly blowing them out. She's a bit of a micromanager, my lady. But it's fine. She's so pretty.

By the time I got the pen back the movie was starting and I was ruing my decision to spread my peanut M&Ms inside my popcorn. I usually get Milk Duds, tried and true, but when I motioned towards my intention to repeat my familiar ritual, Cesca replied with a deadly, "again?" Something different, okay. I can do that. Mistake.

I took the pen back and took a deep hit. Cesca looked over at me, concerned. I kept my eyes planted on the screen. I would be fine. I wasn't fine. I fought the urge to give out a shriek of a cough and just barely managed to avoid it. I then took another hit and repeated the exact same trying process.

As the movie began, the familiar thralldoms of being high emerged. I could see the heads and their shapes and the style and thickness of the hair atop them and I could see the images on the screen and hear what the characters were saying but I was lost inside a looping conversation with myself.

Since my appearance on Arsenal Vision, and the stir it caused, I have been an intermittent contributor and full-time lurker of the show's "Match Day Channel" discord server. I am a hot topic amongst the goyim, and the attention and gravity more words seem to hold feels good. Naturally, I've begun searching "Sam" within the server on the hour. Acknowledging that doesn't feel good.

Having put myself about a bit while maintaining good cheer, occasional questions about me, my life, my career will pop-up. Thus far, I've been relatively open. An interesting request came two nights ago. "@champagnesvm; you didn't answer any of my great questions about Bill Simmons' column about picking an English team."

The possessive apostrophe got my attention. As did the subject, of course. I've never met Bill Simmons. But the follow-up, after my reply of "what was it?" gave me enough latitude that I could answer without being overtly dishonest. "Has he ever said who he supports?"

"Not once," I replied. Laugh reacts abound. Then more questions. Most variations of "Who do you know?" and "Push Simmons on an answer." I put in the chat: "CR is my guy there. I've known Sean since I graduated from Wes." That was it, I figured. Cool maintained.

Chris and I worked together on The World Cup Show and just days previous he paid some nice compliments to my writing and the site, as well as offering some helpful feedback. I wish I'd told him the point of the site was to provide a dated body of work to hopefully get hired to write by a place like The Ringer. Yet again, my desire to imprison myself in a sycophancy could not be muted.

Bill Simmons tweeted, the next day—the same day this story began—that he would be announcing his favorite team on the podcast. In the Match Day Channel, I got all the credit. I didn't respond. It was the perfect plausible deniability.

This coincidence permeated my inner-monologue as I watched Sissy Spacek play the character of a feeble old woman in the pool with Shelley Duval her carer. She, Sissy, reminded me of Adam's fiance, Maia. I wondered whether I should text him that. Part of me thought he would be complimented by the comparison, and part of me wanted him to know I was watching a "cool" movie.

But I didn't text him. It wasn't because of an attempted realignment of how I fish for gratification. It was, firstly, because he hadn't responded to my earlier text about Bebel Gilberto, the daughter of iconic Brazilian musician Joao Gilberto, and whether she would be a potential TAFS Unplugged Guest.

Bebel is a childhood friend of Cesca's father, Lipe. I haven't met her, but from what I can tell she is temperamental, bacchanalian, and talented. She's doing a 25th anniversary tour, and Cesca is working as her "project manager" of sorts.

Another reason I didn't text Adam is because I asked for an update on a potential weekly Premier League Show with The Ringer and Chris. Previously, he had been bullish on the idea and was positive about it happening, even going as far to say as we're going to do it. That's how I remember it. This time, he talked about how busy he was and seemed less enthusiastic. He added that Chris might be busy. I'd asked him about it on our two previous phone calls. Part of me hoped he'd realize I could do the job at Co-Host.

It was getting to be too much. The way to Adam is not through force. Especially not from me. I'm a complete dependent. To get what I want, I have to stop asking. "C'est la vie," as Millie Lammoreaux said. If he wants to do it, he will, and I think if it's easy, he'll want to do it.

Lastly, and most importantly, it was too weird. Why am I thinking about Adam's fiance during an intensive, lightly psycho-sexual, thriller I'm watching with my girlfriend? The thought was truly innocent. But it's much.

CLANK, CLANK, CLANK. SHUFFLE, CLANK, SHUFFLE, SHUFFLE, CLANK.

I still have no idea what she could have knocked over to make such a ruckus. Her water bottle? I never saw her take it out. My most base reaction was annoyance. I had been transported from the realms within myself. Instinctively, my eyes darted about the rows around us, though my head did not move, to gauge reaction. Nobody cared, but the cortisol was still coursing through my shoulders. I could feel Cesca waiting for me to look to her.

When I did, I couldn't help but smile. Her brown eyes, seemingly ready for admonishment, rose above and came into sharp clarity through the dark. As if a gust of wind had knocked the clouds from the view of the moon. I pointed to myself, then made a heart, then pointed at her. She collapsed into my shoulder and I rested my head against the top of hers. Victoria Concordia Cresit. My eyes returned to the screen, unfettered.

Millie Lammoreaux, played by Duval, was an uncomfortable watch. She operated with such an efficient delusion. Or was it a true naivety? I was on a carousel of disgust and empathy. She was the ultimate victim, equal parts innocent and annoying, tragic and deserving loser, soft and saccharine.

But she did not give in to self-pity. And she did not show her suffering. In that way, she is like a Hemingway character and for that reason she commands respect.

Millie made acknowledgment of my narcissism unavoidable. I was pre-suffering in the guise of preparation. Self-sabotage. I needed to enjoy where I was and who I was with. I felt grateful for Altman's minimalism and the space it allowed me to explore.

Describing Altman as a minimalist may seem inept, especially considering the deluge of red and blue imagery melting into one another as the movie climaxed with the still-birth, death, and reinvention, but the dialogue throughout was sparse and terse, the score hinting at violence and tragedy. The landscape was dry and the settings were simple: the pools, the apartment, the hang-out spot.

Maybe I didn't "understand" the movie. The paintings, supposedly revealing the truth of the story, were Chinese to me. Normally that would be a point of frustration, as I've grown used to the subtitles that television often provides. This time I didn't care. I was overwhelmed by the experience. The version of myself I was in the crowd, under the lights. How free my thoughts were, basic, banal, righteous.

The next morning I watched Hoop Dreams (1994). I had seen it once before, when I was maybe 10. My mother has always shown me wonderful things. In her history class, where I was student in 6th and 7th grade, we watched Ken Burns: The Civil War, John Adams (HBO), Amadeus, and more.

At that age I was basketball obsessed, regularly going outside in the driveway, box-score of recent 76ers game in hand, playing out the points I'd imagined each player scored. Allen Iverson was my favorite.

As I watched, a familiar feeling anxiety flooded my torso. Seeing William and Arthur start on opposite ends and gravitate towards one another, I projected doom, that their collision towards one another would lead to disaster for both. Unfinished or unattended college. Capitulation into the pitfalls associated with poverty. Depression.

Potential has always meant opportunity. It's something I've always understood about myself. Thus far, it's gotten me into interesting places. College. Work. Interpersonally. But what's tangible? What have I made for myself? What can I expect from myself?

I consumed Hoop Dreams with an implicit understanding that the end of the documentary would be brutal. How well it turned out was a relief. Both men got college degrees and are alive and healthy. And together. It's beautiful.

Yet also, somehow, such a gentle ending felt disappointing and misleading. If it was always going to work out, why did I spent all that time worried? Can it work out at all if you don't worry? Is the pain incidental?