The Rants, page 11
And yet this is what it's come to. This is what it's come to in contemporary America. Everybody's broken off into these petulant little Travis Bickle tribes. Everybody walks the perimeter of their own damaged esteem ever-vigilant against an incursion by They, Them. The Other Guys. Everybody's touchy and everybody's encouraged to be touchy, everybody that is ... except me: the White Anglo-Saxon male. I'm everybody's asshole. Black people think I'm oppressive and physically deficient. Women think I'm oafish and horny. Gay people think I'm overly macho and latently homosexual. And Asians think I'm lazy and stupid. Hey, you think you've got an ax to grind? I'm fuckin' Paul Bunyan over here, okay, folks?
And if I'm expected to be genial, there's a principle of reciprocity here, I expect you to do the same. Why are we so hung up on the name calling? We are all such overgrown babies. As it turns out adult life is just tall grade school: "You suck," "With your mouth," "Hi, my mouth," "Hi, me." It's embarrassing. I can't believe it, the playground is way back there in the mist. We've got to let it go and get on with it. Why do you think we get hung up on all the little bullshit?
I have a theory: I think we're far less evolved ourselves. I know we consider ourselves to be very nineties creatures, we take it all in, we deal with it ... we put it back out. We are just the hippest little creatures, but you know something? I think in a deep gut level we're scared shitless. We live in a madhouse and it's brought into our living rooms on a day-to-day level via CNN. And we see things that we probably aren't equipped to even vaguely get our head around. Children in Somalia . . . the atrocities in Bosnia—Cal-a-frag-a-listic-ex-pee-al-a-docious. I think all this shit comes down and we think, "Christ, it really is out of control."
So what we do is we take all the little bullshit things, we trump it up into something bigger than it actually is, something we can mold and handle, and in some vague pathetic way keep our feet tethered to the planet.
And that's why this entire country has turned into Gladys Kravitz from "Bewitched."
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
james stockdale 3/17/93
NOW I DON'T WANT TO GET OFF ON A RANT HERE, but the public crucifixion of james Stockdale is one of my lowest moments as an American citizen.
Now I know he's become a buzzword in this culture for doddering old man, but let's look at the record, folks. This guy was the first guy in and the last guy out of Vietnam, a war that many Americans, including our present President, did not want to dirty their hands with. The reason he had to turn his hearing aid on at that debate is because those fucking animals knocked his eardrums out when he wouldn't spill his guts. He teaches philosophy at Stanford University, he's a brilliant, sensitive, courageous man. And yet he committed the one unpardonable sin in our culture: he was bad on television.
Somewhere out there Paddy Chayefsky must be laughing his ass off. We should be ashamed of ourselves. Could he have been our Vice President? Of course he could've been our Vice President. You think A1 Gore is a charismatic visionary? His favorite film is Tron, for Christ's sake.
And how tough can this job be, look who did it for the last four years. Dan Quayle's head is emptier than a Jack in the Box in downtown Seattle. He shouldn't have been second in command of the Hekawi Indians from "F Troop," much less the third most powerful nation on the face of this planet. Always had that freshly tasered Norma Desmond look on his face. His eyes are glazed over like Ban Roll-On applicators. And you know, this is not to say that I won't miss Dan Quayle. Because to me he was the Rosetta Stone of contemporary American comedy. But let's face facts, he deserved the vice presidency like Elvis deserved his black belt, all right? I always thought of this guy as like Dan Tanna's assistant, Binzer, on the old "Vegas" show. You let him answer the phone but he does not drive the T-bird.
And you know something, I'll bet you any money he's thinking of running for President five years from now. The day Dan Quayle's our President is the day Shelley Winters runs with the bulls at Pamplona.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
the gop first hundred days 4/7/95
WOW, IT CERTAINLY HAS BEEN AN EVENTFUL hundred days for the Republicans, huh? Since Gingrich and the Republicans have assumed control of Congress, all of us have remained glued to our televisions. We are awestruck by the speed at which all this is taking place—the never-ending sessions, the incessant bickering, the controversy surrounding the reliability of DNA testing ... Wait a second. That's another freak show.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but I can't believe all of the incredible changes that have swept across this great nation of ours in the Republicans' first hundred days:
The deficit now stands at zero; homelessness and poverty have, like polio, been eradicated forever; and violent crime and illiteracy are things of the past. All hallucinating aside, maybe, just maybe, we should actually think about giving the Republicans a little breathing room. After all, it's only been a measly one hundred days and that's roughly the length of the new cast introductions on "Saturday Night Live."
And I guess you've got to hand it to old Newt and the boys. They have actually accomplished some of what they set out to do—line item veto, common sense legal reform, trimming government waste.
Good for them! In a city where men keep more women than they do promises, give Gingrich his due: He has followed through on his swing to the pragmatic right.
On the negative side of the ledger, the GOP, which has long railed against the evils of career politicians, promised that within the first hundred days, they would impose term limits on members of Congress. But last week, House Republicans voted squarely against public opinion and rejected term limits. You know, I'll bet when it comes to legislating term limits on benefits to unwed single mothers and welfare recipients, my guess is they'll pass that like a burrito dipped in Vaseline. I guess some things will never change.
Elected office still contains more perks than Elvis Presley's nightstand.
Another negative as I see it is that the new balanced budget amendment has more harsh cuts in it than a Clive Barker film edited for airline use—heavy-handed cuts— heavy-handed cuts that remind you the Republican way of solving problems is like shooting at the rats in your row- boat with your .45.
But as far as I'm concerned, the "Contract with America" really metamorphs into a throw rug for your parakeet's cage when they start screwing around with the school lunch program.
Newt wants to eliminate federal responsibility for free breakfasts in public schools and turn it over to the states. Hey, folks, the states can't pave fucking roads! And besides, you think Newt really knows firsthand what it's like to miss a meal? Huh? There are pelicans envious of this guy's gullet. Gingrich has more chins than an "impeach Al D'Amato rally." Yeah. You gotta quit moaning or I am gonna turn on you viciously. Either laugh or don't but don't give me that whiny moan shit all night.
Yeah, mess with the school lunch program. We don't have enough violence in school, let's add hunger into the equation. Then the kids will have to bring Gloch nine-millimeter handguns to school, because, you see, they won't be gang-bangers anymore, they'll be hunter-gatherers.
Okay, those are some of the specifics of the contract I quibble with. But even more disturbing is this stubborn, retro-minded urge by the Republicans to return to the so- called good old days. Listen, I'm somewhat sympathetic. Quite frankly, I understand the Republican frustration with modern life in general. But the difference between the Republicans and me is that I am ultimately capable of being jolted back to reality. They don't want to come back. They want it to be the 1950s really badly.
Unfortunately, they refuse to acknowledge one pertinent fact: the fifties sucked, all right! Just ask women, African Americans, anybody who was blacklisted, and the Big Bopper.
So what I'm saying is, as much as the Republicans long for the salad days of Roy Cohn, we will never achieve that gold-plated era again. Because, we're here now. Can't we set the wayback machine ahead a little, Shermie?
Now, as frustrating as that inability to return to simpler times may be to you Republicans, you—as politicians— cannot let that frustration turn into ugly anger. You leave that to me. Because no matter how rancorous I get, no matter how many big words I come perilously close to misusing, no matter how many profanities I stack up like dirty dishes at Brando's place, nothing I do will result in the school lunch program being trifled with.
Nothing I do will result in billionaire asbestos magnates living tax free on yachts a half-inch off the Florida coast.
Nothing I do will yank a family out of their home and into a refrigerator box on the all-too-mean streets.
And so, in response to the Contract with America, I propose my Contract with the Republicans: You do your job—create legislation to help Americans become not only more responsible, but also more compassionate, more tolerant, and more caring, and dare I say it, even more loving, and in exchange, you leave the bitter, callous, caustic, searing, vituperative, bile-filled, venomous, blistering, I can't believe Sonny Bono is actually one of my fucking leaders, bitchfest ... you, uh, leave that to responsible pros like me.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
pro sports strikes 12/23/94
WE GOT NO BASEBALL. WE GOT NO HOCKEY. IF IT weren't for my rotisserie cockfight league I would have never gotten through the year. And I should say up front that I have a lot more trouble with the baseball strike than I do the hockey lockout. Hockey players seem to bust their ass, give you good return on your dollar, and quite frankly, it looks like the new commissioner, Gary Bettman, he seems to be somewhat of a Napoleonic creep. So I think I'm on the players' side there.
But let's be honest—these labor disputes aren't about the need for salary caps or free agency. The real reason is deeper than that, and it's symptomatic of what's wrong everywhere in America, from our out-of-control legal system to our out-of-control health care system, to our out-of-control governmental system. Pure and simple: we're talking greed here. It's a never-ending quest for the biggest and best grail.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but how can Americans still cherish baseball, a sport whose owners, given the chance, would place a Coors logo on home plate, and whose heroes, given the chance, would charge seven-year-old fans fifty bucks for a mug of day-old tobacco chew? We should stop deluding ourselves: Professional baseball in America is no longer a collection of Norman Rockwell tableaux of umpires feeling for rain or corn-fed outfielders standing in green fields of honor.
Baseball is what it is: just another profession, no more, no less.
I think baseball should recognize the fact that we had no World Series this year and yet nobody protested in the streets, nobody got in the Kool-Aid line, nobody even blinked, for chrissakes. What the players and owners of all major league sports have to remember is that people have this innate ability to switch from one form of entertainment to another. Just ask the guys that banked on vaudeville or bought stock in Betamax, or better yet, ask Gary Burghoff and McLean Stevenson ... they're sharing a pad, aren't they?
I sometimes think back to the days when I could rely on professional sports as a video soporific. It seemed like a perfect scheme—baseball took you to football, football took you to basketball and hockey, basketball and hockey took you back to baseball again, with a few days off to get your teeth cleaned. We had it set up so only a few professional athletes actually had to spend their lives doing something. The rest of us could just sit back and watch. It was fucking beautiful. A whole nation of unshaven men sitting in their tattered undies on plaid couches, expanding like doughnuts on a jelly injector, watching a bunch of assholes play games. But the assholes who play the games couldn't get enough from the assholes who own the teams, and so the rest of us have been forced to confront the fact that we were the biggest assholes of all for being so fascinated by it.
So you know what's happened? We've actually been forced to participate in our own lives. And you know what? It turns out, it's more fun to play baseball than it is to watch it. It's more fun to get out with my friends, my kids, my wife, and do something on the weekend than it is to watch a couple of jag-offs punch each other on skates.
Hey, you know, I've wasted too much time and put on too much weight watching other people play games. Don't bother settling the strikes, we don't want you back. You've ruined the illusion that any of it matters. What matters now is my life, my family. And the fact that Christmas is the day after tomorrow. And here's a little jingle for you boys—
(Sung to "Deck the Halls")
Deck the halls with balls of holly
All the other balls are locked away
'Tis the season for sheer folly
Everybody wants a raise in pay
Sleazy owners, cheesy players
From New York, all the way, to L.A.
All of them are greedy bastards
They can go to hell, we'll pay their way!
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
homosexuality
NOW I DON'T WANT TO GET OFF ON A RANT HERE, but I need to have a little tete-a-tete with my heterosexual brothers and sisters. Could we get over this gay thing, please, like, like now? Gay men and women have been around since the dawn of time, which predates even Jesse Helms by twenty years. "Why do they do it? Where does it come from? Is it environmental or genetic?" Hey, I don't care if they find a chiffon scarf on the X chromosome—the important thing is, homosexuality is here to stay. So many people are into so many different things sexually, why single out a group of people and hound them, beat them, decry their existence, deprive them of jobs even in the military—the one place every unemployable American knows he can go for a plate of beans and a dental plan.
Who cares about homosexuality, really? I mean who cares what coupling gives any consenting adult pleasure? All we should care about is that people are going home and getting off, somehow, with someone, anyone. Because a person who gets off tends not to be a nut who gets off offing people.
About the only people I might quibble with are bisexuals, because I think we all agree at some point that these people are just incredibly greedy motherfuckers. I don't ask much from a human being, but come down off the fence and pick a hole. All right. I don't care what you fuck, but fuck it regularly.
Now this is not to say I don't have my differences with some members of the gay community. When I'm watching the Gay Pride parade, and the "Genitals Are Our Friends" float cruises by, with two leather-bound Eraserheads dressed up as Timmy and Tommy, the Testicle Twins, sure, I get the same creepy feeling I get when I hear Shatner sing. But the bottom line is, that's their business at the end of the day, it's relatively harmless business.
That being said—that we need to be tolerant of the sexual proclivities of others—there are those who fall outside the great campfire of heterosexual weenie-roasts and schwing-a-longs and they have got to stop them from wasting their time looking for across-the-board validation. It's just not gonna happen. Not on this planet—not in our lifetime.
ACT UP and other radical swat teams from the genital fringe have got to hit the mute button, because that caterwauling is throwing all the wrong switches out there in the vast heartland of America. Also, there's no need for members of ACT UP to throw condoms at Catholic priests. It's disrespectful, and besides, these days, most priests already have their own condoms.
And on the straight side of the ledger, right wing politicians and flaks have got to stop preaching the politics of exclusion. Pat Buchanan is so homophobic he blames global warming on the AIDS quilt.
You know something, it is time to grow up, to stop looking for bogeymen under the bed. We don't have the time to waste. I don't know if you've peeked through the Levolors lately, but we are roller-blading toward chaos with no elbow pads. The infrastructure of civilized society is unraveling faster than O.J.'s alibi. What the hell, let's try tolerance, because we need all the bright, capable people we can possibly get our hands on.
We have got to ratchet down the sexual hysteria in this country. Live and let live, folks. Let your neighbor come home, get out of his car, wave happily at you as he goes into his home, and then, you know something, forget about him or her. Let it go.
Why do we try to intellectualize sex anyway? It resides in an exalted position in the visceral pantheon because it is the Great unfigurable. We don't know much about it, but we do know that the orgasm never disappoints. You've never come, and thought, "Eeeuugh, what was that?!" It's always there for you. You know that incredible feeling when you're in the midst of one of those Santino Corle- one door-banging froths, one of those Arthur C. Clarke memorial fucks, where you look down at the bottom of the bed and see that big monolith, and you don't have any idea what it means, but you know something really, really important is about to happen. And the guy's got that Eddie Vedder-head shake thing going, and the woman's muttering under her breath like Donovan singing "Hurdy Gurdy Man." And you realize at that precise moment you are at the pleasurable epicenter of the Milky Way galaxy.
