Friday, June 06, 2003

They showed "American Splendor," the movie, at this year's Cannes film festival. HBO and Fine Line, who own it, sent me, my wife and daughter over there to publicize it. I was warned in advance to bring over a tuxedo and suit, so as to be able to attend certain events. Cannes apparently has a very active group of fashion police. I hate messing around with clothes, and try to dress as simply as possible, but if I was to accept their generous sponsorship I had to have the threads to fulfill my functions at various parties and screenings. So I got busy. My wife arranged for the guy who does our taxes to take me to a going-out-of-business clothing store, where I was able to snag a suit with a one hundred dollar discount, plus a couple of ties and shirts-- all paid for by HBO. Then one of my neighbors offered to lend me her husband's decades-old tux, which eventually allowed me to attend the premier of Gus Van Sant's "Elephant," another HBO production. I'm happy to report that I was not turned away from a single event. The tuxedo outfit, particularly its fancy shirt, garnered an especially large number of compliments. I was told by a film exec from Barcelona that this shirt had been made in Mexico. Who am I to argue with her? The suit got me into a couple of parties and a screening of "American Splendor." Again I was applauded for my sartorial elegance-- mostly by people used to seeing me in jeans and a T-shirt. Anything more impressive than that would delight and surprise Harvey Pekar observers. As good as I looked, however, I was overshadowed by my wife's lovely attire. She wore a skirt with a bustle that she claimed made her “look like a character from a Henry James novel that had just swum to the shore after falling off a yacht in the Mediterranean.” 9:23:10 AM

We received all kinds of wardrobe advice from people before going to Cannes. To walk the red carpet, and there actually was one, I could not get away with pants. And my shoes had to be expensive: nothing from Payless. It’s only recently that we’ve started shopping at anything more haute than charity thrift stores. (“Gently worn” and resale stores seemed too elegant.) Once Danielle came to live with us, we moved up to places like Value City so she could wear the kind of jeans and sneakers that allowed her to blend in with the “Lord of the Flies” crowd at school. At first, the choices were a little overwhelming. When you go to a thrift store to buy a navy blue sweater you look until you find one in your size with no visible stains or moth holes. That’s your sweater. Eventually, though, I got used to the racks and the rows. I borrowed some very expensive, never worn shoes from a friend who had gone to an estate sale. The original $295 receipt was still in the box and the toes were stuffed with tissue paper. Pretty classy, except no one warned me that lady shoes, unlike my rubber soled sandals and sneakers, were built to glide. Make that slide. When I actually hit the red tread, I felt like I was learning to skate. Still, people saw what they wanted to see. Shari Springer Berman pointed out an article that was written about us by a reporter who interviewed us one breezy day by the Mediterranean. It was solemnly reported that Harvey was somehow uncouth and I was wearing a plebian green hooded sweatshirt. This is because I come from Cleveland. Joanna Connors, from the Cleveland Plain Dealer, would have seen a sea foam colored poplin windbreaker, tailored by London Fog and bought at 40% off from Kaufman’s. And it matched my skirt, blouse and socks 9:22:42 AM

How I Met Harvey Pekar Yeah, childhood has its ups and downs. So far, mine was down, and kept going down more every day. From mom to dad, from grandparents to aunts and uncles, then back with dad again. My dad had always loved comics, and could draw very well. We would go to comic book shops and try to get him an art job, and then one day my dad struck gold. He picked up an American Splendor comic book and dangled it in front of my face while I was looking at a “Ranma ½” manga book. “Hey, man! You’re blocking my view!!!” I said. “Awe, come on! Danielle, we have to go to visit Harvey Pekar!” he said, trying to get me to put the book down. Not looking up, I said vaguely, “Who’s Harvey Pekar?” He just looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Come on slowpoke…” I looked up at him and said, “Danielle goes where the manga book goes, you gotta choose 1. Be a childless daddy. 2. Have a happy QUIET child.” I did the sad puppy face and he gave in. We drove to where (the famous) Harvey Pekar resided. It was raining. We passed several houses, big houses, like family-of-12-size houses. We finally got to the address and walked up on the porch. An old scary looking man answered the door and said in a raspy voice “You’re the guy who called?” “Yeah, this is my daughter, Danielle.” I walked into the house and my jaw dropped, beads, bottles of sequins, wires, hammers, paint, and gold and silver clay. My immediate thought was to run over to the coffee table where these new wonderful art supplies sat. It was like a new magical world like if I picked up the clay and made something, it would be magnificent. If there is a real life Harry Potter, then I’m the kid, going from the mundane regular routine of black and white, to the color and shine of discovery and adventure. Since I was in another new environment, I got a little excited and had the sudden urge to relieve my 9-year-old self. I tugged on the sleeve of my dad’s leather jacket and said, “I gotta go to the bathroom.” He asked Harvey where it was and we went to the second floor. “Hey, listen the toilet on this floor is broken, follow me up the steps.” Harvey said. So we went up another flight of stairs, I looked to the left and saw the most annoyingly organized room of more art supplies. I wanted to go through them, but I had to go to the bathroom, so I took it one step at a time. While I was gone, Harvey told Joyce that a kid came over with a dad who was extremely interested in R. Crumb, and that I was pretty artistic. (That’s what my dad told him.) Joyce came out and smiled at me, “What’s your name?” she asked. “Danielle” I said shyly. (Understand, that I was only 9 years old and I had moved around to more different places than I was old, so meeting new people made me tense because I thought that I would be ripped from a family member that I was fond of.) Joyce asked me more about myself, and told me to pick something from the room “A TOY!!” I said. “That’s too easy” she replied “Animal, Vegetable, or mineral?” she asked. ”Mineral!” I said. She asked me when my birthday was so she could figure out what my birthstone was. She gave me some leather, a needle and thread and an amethyst. I made a little bag, while Joyce did computer work. When it was time to go, I said, “I would like to see you again!” Joyce said that they would love to see me again too. I asked her if she would be “my mother substitute”-- kind of like Equal or Sweet And Low. We gave each other a hug. When my dad revved up the car I ran back up the steps and hugged her again. As my dad and me drove back home, I forgot about my “Ranma ½” book and bragged about my little leather bag. That night I slept with my little bag close to me (under my pillow) and was anxious to go to Joyce and Harvey’s house the next weekend. Later, I moved in with Harvey and Joyce and they became my legal guardians. Being a recycled kid isn’t so bad. People who recycle find a good place for something that belonged to someone else. They know they’ve found the right stuff and the stuff stays with them, as “a real treasure.” 9:21:45 AM