Don’t Call Me Guido

Spicoli or Soprano?

I took my seat in the stands at a high school football game recently and introduced myself to a seatmate who asked me, "Are you from the East Coast?" I was taken aback, even though I've heard this before. "No, why? Do I sound like it?" I asked back. Writing that now seems edgier than I intended, New York-ish even, especially in the genteel world of quarter-zipped, Travis Matthews-clad sports parents. But in my mind, it had an even sharper edge. In my mind, there was an expletive in my retort. In my mind, I gave him a polite suggestion on something he might want to go and do alone. In my mind, I told him, "Don't call me Guido." In my mind.

Instead, I resolved the mystery by sliding back into my California drawl and told him, "Nah, I'm from down the street, dude." I've always heard my diction as more Spicoli than Soprano, and now I'm wondering if the iconic surfer from Fast Times at Ridgemont High may have been Italian. I am a half-Italian, third-generation American, and all Californian. But perhaps I'm not as integrated as I thought. When non-Italians hear us speak, do they hear Spicoli or Soprano?

Calling someone "East Coast" in Los Angeles is often a euphemism for the mannerisms of my East Coast Italian brethren. They come from Newark, Bensonhurst, or Long Island and may have been the creators of "F around and find out." Out East, offense is given easily. One of my favorite episodes of The Sopranos is "The Happy Wanderer" (S2, E6), where Silvio loses it on Matt Bevilaqua, who is sweeping up cheese that Silvio had just spilled from his plate during a poker game. Silvio explodes in rage. Why? Why now? I like cheese! Leave it there! After losing the hand, the scene ends with Silvio ordering Matt, "Hey Cheese F***, get me some food."

In Los Angeles, nobody cares enough about anything to get worked up about it, except maybe which type of milk to put in their coffee. Even Lakers games don't fill up until the 4th quarter. Our laid-back culture permeates every aspect of life—from our forecasters who warn of severe sub-70-degree weather to our drivers who view red lights as suggestions rather than hard stops. Here, urgency belongs to the out-of-towners and the carpetbaggers. Natives know that everything—from our next earthquake to our graffiti towers Downtown—can wait until mañana. Order a pizza out West, and it will come—eventually. Back East, my cousins are flipping pies as if it were a contact sport.

That's why The Sopranos could never work here. Imagine Tony Soprano out West; he doesn't need Dr. Melfi anymore; he's got a mindfulness coach. Tony's done shaking down shop owners; instead, he meditates in Santa Monica and runs a startup in Playa. He's traded in his gold horse-bit loafers for a pair of Reefs and some board shorts.

Yet, there's a cultural divide out here, too. I remember, as a child, the first time I had dinner at a friend's house, an "American" family that my grandmother would call "white." I was confused when the mother plated each dish with an appropriate helping of chicken, rice, and vegetables—like a restaurant. I didn't ask for seconds because I wasn't sure they had any. Back at home, I asked my mom if they didn't have any money. She laughed and asked me if I looked at their house, which was large and well-appointed. She explained that's how Americans ate. I wondered if they were hungry all the time. I was used to the never-ending parade of food trays and the confusion of our guests when they asked, "How many more are coming?" This tradition of making too much food is driven not only by love but also by the fear of great shame should we run out of food for our guests.

I'm also loud. I've learned to read a room slightly better than in my youth, but only slightly. Life is for the living. People can be so laid-back here that it borders on apathy. Many have become walking dead, meandering from sunset to sunset, staring at the ground, waiting for their car to charge.

I can be aggressive. I remember a business call many years ago that ended when I hung up abruptly. I couldn't listen to the other person drone on any longer. To my amazement, he called back to tell me I was "passive-aggressive." I told him I was just "aggressive-aggressive," and I hung up again. That was before the enlightened era of my fifties.

In the end, I must recognize that my seatmate was keenly observant. When he heard my melodic voice, he used his deductive powers of reasoning to deduce that I was an Italian-American from the tri-state area. Maybe I'm a guy who likes almond milk in the morning but still eats his slice with a fold. I'm Californian enough not to care about most things you might call me; don't call me Guido.

xAP