Cheech Marin, state treasure
This week, California should give thanks for Cheech.
Richard Anthony Marin deserves our gratitude not just because his new autobiography, “Cheech Is Not My Real Name ... But Don’t Call Me Chong,” is the best California book of the year. Or because he provides hope that short, bald men still can be stars.
The biggest reason to thank Cheech Marin now is that his life embodies Thanksgiving itself: a big, robust meal that includes many different flavors but is ultimately for everyone. This California entertainer reminds us, happily, that our state’s cultural mainstream is so much more interesting and inclusive than we acknowledge.
Indeed, Marin is evidence of a California paradox: To stay in the mainstream here, it helps to start as an outsider. Though Marin is still identified as a “cult” figure — one-half of the Cheech and Chong stoner comedy team, which made the 1978 film “Up in Smoke” — his career has been much bigger and more mainstream than that.
Indeed, the dirty secret of Marin’s life, as he tells it, is that he’s a square, a middle-class kid who spent his early years in predominantly black South Los Angeles. His father was a Los Angeles police officer; his mother was president of the PTA. By his teens, the family had relocated to a white neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley.
Racially and ethnically, he was an outsider in both places, so the future actor-musician-writer-comedian did everything he could to fit in: Cub Scout, Boy Scout, altar boy and “a little wiseass who got straight A’s” in Catholic schools. He even worked in the signature L.A. industry — aerospace — during college in Northridge, manufacturing airplane galleys at Nordskog.
The book’s signature moment, recounted by Marin as the Apostle Paul might have recalled his trip to Damascus, is when he smoked marijuana for the first time and found that the allegedly mind-rotting substance expanded his perspective. He thought: “What else have they been lying about?”
And with that, he discovered art, awakened politically, dodged the draft, met Tommy Chong and began playing shows all over the world. He bought a house in Malibu and even practiced Transcendental Meditation, as taught by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
Marin proudly identifies as Chicano and Latino and sees his heritage as bridge, not niche. The glory of being Latino, he writes, is that you are part of a diverse demographic that contains multitudes.
“My face has some kind of international malleability to it. Add your own preferences or prejudice to it, and I could be anything,” he writes.
But narrow-minded Hollywood types couldn’t see his natural breadth at first. Marin countered by writing his own material, most successfully in the 1987 film “Born in East L.A.” The movie is quintessential Cheech — framing the Mexican American story as fundamentally American and demonstrating the absurdities of putting people in boxes.
Marin’s other strategy was to find roles in middlebrow productions and make them his own. He did a spin-off of “The Golden Girls” and co-starred with Don Johnson on the police drama “Nash Bridges,” set and filmed in San Francisco. While living there, he appeared in the premiere of a Sam Shepard play, “The Late Henry Moss,” at San Francisco’s Theatre on the Square. And he turned himself into a regular voice in Pixar films, most notably as Ramone in “Cars.”
Marin is unapologetic about mainstream success. His book includes an entire chapter on how he became champion of “Celebrity Jeopardy.” By his account, his old partner, Tommy Chong, foundered because he was not willing to evolve to reach audiences.
Marin has made news more recently as a leading collector of Chicano art. Riverside wants to turn over its main library for the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art, Culture and Industry. Marin, ever mainstream, emphasizes, “Chicano art is American art.”
Despite his cult status, it’s hard to call Marin countercultural now. Antonio Villaraigosa, who performed Marin’s most recent marriage, is a leading candidate for California governor. In January, recreational marijuana will become legal in Marin’s home state.
Now that Marin is an institution, maybe it’s time to honor him as one. Perhaps California could create its own version of Mount Rushmore; the natural place would be the Granite Mountains in the Mojave Desert.
There would be many candidates for this pantheon. But why not start by carving the stoner in stone?