The Rants, page 5
The math now dictates that Bonnie Blair trains hard, keeps her mouth shut, wins five gold medals—five—and she can't get a headband endorsement. Nancy Kerrigan comes in second—once—tells Mickey Mouse to go fuck himself, and she strikes the mother lode.
You know, just like all other walks of society, sports fame has become a matter of smile over substance. And you know, it's all sports.
In football, it's Jerry Jones' swelled head. In basketball, it's Dennis Rodman's mood-ring head. In boxing, it's Don King's troll-doll head. And in tennis, it's Andre Agassi's balding head. Yeah, we noticed, Andy. Well, you know something? I say off with their heads. They're our games and we want them back.
We are being cheated. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are no longer Stuhldreyer, Miller, Crowley, and Layden but rather Greed, Ego, Arbitration, and Steinbrenner. The Elysian athletic fields of my youth have been turned into the Poulan Weed Eater dust bowls of today. The true poetry of sport has been corroded and we are left with nothing but the following broken verse.
It looked extremely rocky for the L.A. nine that day;
The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play;
So, when De Shields died at second, and Butler did the same;
Bad karma clouded the Blu-Blockers of the patrons at the game.
A few got up to do some blow, leaving there the rest;
With that hope which springs eternal within the siliconed breast;
For they thought: "If only Darryl could get a whack at that ..."
They just might put their sushi down, with Strawberry at the bat.
But Piazza preceded Straw-man, and likewise so did Wallach;
And the former was still three years shy of arbitration, and the latter was a five-and-ten man who was contractually guaranteed final approval of the teams he could be traded to;
So on that earthquake, brushfire, mud slide, riot-torn Angelyne-billboard stricken multitude, a deathlike silence sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Darryl getting to the bat.
But Piazza let drive a "triple," to the wonderment of all;
And the inconsistent Wallach took a slider in the balls;
And after his obligatory charge to the mound to make his feelings heard;
There was Wallach safe at first, and Piazza a-huggin' third.
Then from the jaded multitude went up a wine spritzer- soaked yell;
It rumbled off the 405 and the Hollywood sign, as well;
It struck off Spago's windows, which shook like liposuctioned fat;
For Darryl, flighty Darryl, was advancing to the bat.
There was disease, Lasorda would say weakness, in Darryl's manner as he twelve-stepped into place;
There was pride in Darryl's bearing and some white stuff on his face;
Sixty thousand and one eyes were on him—okay, Peter Falk was there, it's Hollywood—as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Thirty thousand folks applauded, dripping DoveBars on their shirts.
Now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the smog;
And Darryl stood a-watching in a self-indulgent fog;
Close by the useless batsman the ball unheeded sped;
"I've seen better orbs at strip clubs," said Darryl. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From sky boxes stuffed with Armani suits there went up a muffled roar;
Like the whacking off of perverts in that park on the Santa Monica shore;
Hey, I was looking for a rhyme.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted Kevorkian in the stands;
And it's likely they'd have killed him, had not Darryl raised his spouse-abusing hand.
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Darryl had nearly nodded off, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"You suck, you worthless piece of shit," cried the maddened thousands,
Clustered around my four-year-old son and me;
And then the echo answered: ";Tu chupas, tu bueno pa' nada pedazo de mierda!"
But one scornful look from Darryl and the fans' inner- child anger cleared;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, like the day he smacked that homeless guy for lookin' at him weird;
Then they heard him whining about his 4 million per annum strain;
And knew that the chances were 2-in-10 he wouldn't let the ball go again;
And now the obscenely overpaid 8-and-13 pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go;
And now the shitty L.A. air is shattered by the farce of Darryl's blow.
Well somewhere in this troubled land the sun is shining bright;
The Eagles have reunited, and somewhere hearts are light;
Somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville: Mighty Darryl is strung out.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
homeless
HBO HOLDS AN ANNUAL HOMELESS BENEFIT, "Comic Relief." HBO's been involved in the homeless problem for years, probably because undoubtedly they have a sense of compassion and hey, let's face it, somebody doesn't have a home, somebody doesn't have cable.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but the "trickle of souls who fall through society's cracks" has become a full-fledged tsunami. Have you taken a stroll around Manhattan lately? The only thing separating it from Calcutta is the Benetton stores. And it is a sight that's become all too familiar here in L.A. as well.
We've all seen them—wandering the streets with their possessions in shopping bags, muttering to themselves as they pick through garbage bins. But enough about agents.
Now, right up front, uhh, do I believe that every single one of these people that I see on the street has been fucked around by life? No I don't. There are some people out there who I think are scam artists, and I don't have much compassion for some of these seemingly able- bodied mid-twenties, vaguely threatening, attitude-laden guys who have decided that their personal statement is that they're going to give up on life at a very early stage of the game. Sorry, boys, life can be a motherfucker.
And some of you just gotta get a little tougher. All right?! But importantly, I also believe that the great majority of people I see walking the streets are in trouble.
But the homeless are made up of many people—poor alcoholics, runaways, Viet vets, castoffs from mental institutions, immigrants, they're all out there every night. And the rest of us are finding it easier and easier to rationalize their plight. But there's one group of homeless people that we can't rationalize away, one specific sub-group that haunts us to an ever-increasing degree, the one that really rattles our thorax, and those are the unlucky.
People who couldn't quite cut a mortgage payment, got laid off a month later, had to leave their home, kid got sick, medicine wiped out the rent money, and wham, they're on the street. Even the assholes among us can't rationalize them away—Lazy? Stupid? Drunk? Drugged? No. They're us. They're us with one lousy fucking wrong turn somewhere down the line.
Of course, Rush Limbaugh and his ilk think the homeless are just the weakest of the herd who should be sent off to The Island of Misfit Toys without a pang of remorse. Ironically enough, Limbaugh is very popular with the homeless community in this country, 'cause there always seems to be a new refrigerator box in his trash bin.
And Limbaugh begat Gingrich and his congressional ilk, who are hard at work trying to pass legislation that would fund their new Stealth Homeless project. You know they're there, but you can't see them.
But for those of us not hypnotized by talk radio or partisan hype, we know a hell of a lot of people are living one paycheck away from being out on the street. There is no job security anymore. Most of the jobs available in this country won't earn you enough to pay rent on Baltic and Mediterranean. And they're the shitty purple ones.
What's the solution? Is it too simplistic to say that karma dictates Kato Kaelin begin taking homeless people in?
Nobody has gotten this much ink off not having a place of his own since Jesus Christ.
And the answer certainly is not housing projects. Look at our most famous example of public housing—the White House. The government can't even stop the President from being shot at, how are they gonna do it for a group of five-year-olds in Cabrini-Green? We tried to come up with a simple solution to a complicated problem and ended up creating so much bureaucratic red tape we got caught with our panacea down around our ankles.
We can also disregard the suggestions of the ultra- conservatives that we should build softer sidewalks, or the ultraliberals that the homeless should unionize.
This is not about the right or left wing, but about the gated communities and the cardboard Hiltons. And if many of the people on the streets are mentally ill, well, a lot of people in houses are, too. You just can't keep tinting your car windows until you can no longer see your beleaguered neighbors out on the street.
Folks, there are so many things we don't have the cure for, but this is not one of them. When it comes to homelessness, we have the Lorenzo's Oils. Is there a greater irony than a homeless person sitting on the steps of a boarded-up apartment building? There are a shitload of buildings all across this country that are not being used to their maximum efficiency, and I'm not just talking about the Capitol Building.
We have to retrieve these buildings from building code bullshit-land and start making sure people without a roof over their heads are getting into them at night. No American should ever have to live in a dwelling where the walls read, THIS END UP.
In addition to making use of these buildings, we have to devise a system where the money donated to help these people goes directly into their frost-bitten hands instead of going to people who don't even need it. This country has so many special interests sucking off the entitlement teat that oftentimes the only substantive money actually getting through to the homeless is in the form of spare change.
And finally, what we have to understand as a nation is that Thomas Jefferson didn't quite go far enough—all men are created equal, but not all men are equal at all times. And occasionally, people need assistance. They have trouble keeping up with the pack, and while it might be difficult, if we can't begin to make the wide bank and swing this Love Boat around so that we can go back and throw life preservers at nonswimmers drowning in our wake, then we truly deserve to hit a fucking iceberg.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
women in Hollywood
OH, COME ON, HOLLYWOOD HAS ALWAYS BEEN screwed up with its take on women. Look at the movie Pretty Woman. This was a man's view of prostitution—Hey, tool down Hollywood Boulevard about 2 a.m. some Saturday and try to find a Julia Roberts look-alike.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but Hollywood is a mean little town. And I'll grant you it has to be unbelievably grating for women to lie back on the casting couch and look up at a glass ceiling. Still, everybody has to eat shit in this town—it's just some people get to write it off.
Hollywood does what it does for financial reasons alone. If Hitler walked into this town and said, "I've figured out how to do Die Hard in a hot air balloon!" he'd have a three-picture deal before you could say Carrot Top, all right? The liberalism of this town thrives only in living room fund-raisers and over expensive wines at Morton's and Spago. Watch enough television, see enough movies, and you'll realize that people in Hollywood will say or do anything to make a buck. They will decry the lack of women's roles in the same breath as they green light Tootsie, Mrs. Doubtfire, and The Crying Game.
Hollywood has always been a contradictory compost heap of rationalizations. The whole business of entertainment is a Janus mask hanging on an outhouse door—one face pious, liberal humanitarian, devoted to good causes and politically relevant art, the other face an avaricious Philistine willing to dress its own mother in spandex if it will help the ratings.
So if Hollywood will do anything for money, why would they exclude women? In fact, do they exclude women? Or do they just not include them enough to satisfy women?
I mean, think about it. How hard is it to find women in Hollywood? Name five great male actors. Easy to do? Pretty much. Name five women. Just as easy, isn't it? Holly Hunter, Meryl Streep, Sharon Stone ... the woman in The Last Seduction, and, uh ... Traci Lords.
I'm kidding, but the point is you instantly thought of ten other great actresses you wanted me to name—Glenn Close, Cicely Tyson, Jobeth Williams, Michelle Pfeiffer, Sigourney Weaver, Susan Sarandon, Winona Ryder, Di- anne Wiest, Mia Farrow, Jodie Foster. It's a long list and I've left out a lot of great actresses. So what's the problem? What are women saying? I've got to believe the real problem isn't that there are no women on screen, but that women don't feel their essential nature is ever allowed on screen.
That actresses, as good as they are, as prevalent as they are, are still not allowed to be "women," not allowed to express a true, feminine point of view. They feel bound by the male view of women, to be either a sexpot or a shrew ... a witch bitch or a Barbie doll. Or without men at all, on the run with another disappointed chick in a convertible. You know, it's man's simplistically polarized view of the role of women in the universe that women must find so frustrating. It's the Madonna/whore thing. No, I mean the psychological theory.
But the fact is, women are in Hollywood, in large numbers, on screen and off. Not yet equal, not yet as powerful as men, but getting there. The hard way, I admit, because no guy wants to be the first to say, "Hey, too many guys have jobs, take mine!"
But women will get there, and when they do, they'll make a movie that is about women as women see women. And women will release it into theaters, and the odds dictate that women will lose money on it, and, finally, women producers will be the ones making movies about sexpots and shrews in mortal combat with bullies and bastards.
I look forward to that, you know why? Because when women are free to be the ones who make the shitty decisions and give the go-ahead to make shitty films with vapid plotlines that you can see through like used Neutrogena, then and only then will true equality between the sexes have been achieved.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
civility
HAS ANYBODY ELSE NOTICED THAT CIVILITY IS disappearing faster than a pack of smokes at an AA meeting? And you know it appears as if we've given up on trying to preserve it. Most people seem to accept this disintegration of manners as a fait accompli and have simply lined the borders of their personal space with razor wire.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but we've devolved over the last few decades from a Barry Lyndon gentility to a bunch of Thunderdome mooks. Nowadays, thoughtless clods all across this great land of ours do everything from clipping their fingernails in restaurants to checking themselves for polyps in the buffet line. As a matter of fact, you can't go anywhere without suffering incivility.
You go to the mall to pick up a smoky-link Gouda gift set from Hickory Farms. You come out, your car's been keyed and some workforce fringe player has left a flyer on your windshield about how you can get 10 percent off gay porn films at Dick's Porn Film's Video Shaft.
You go to the supermarket and you wind up in the line that is clearly marked TEN ITEMS OR LESS, CASH ONLY, waiting behind a Ninja drifter with no ID, who's attempting to pay for fourteen fucking cartloads of puddin' pops with a personal check from the Bank of Tehran.
People no longer understand the basic rules of courtesy. Rule Number One: You must get out of the way and let people off the elevator before you can get on the elevator, okay? Rule Number Two: When you call someone at three-fifteen in the morning and get the wrong number, don't just say, "Oh, this isn't Charlene?" Click. Say, "I'm very sorry to have pestered you. I am an assface." And Rule Number Three: Turn your goddamn car stereo down—did you ever think that maybe I didn't want to hear the bass line to "Baby Got Back"? Did that ever enter your assface skull, assface?!
Even when I try to escape the cold, rude world, and isolate myself in a darkened movie theater for two hours of unencumbered escapism, I get stuck behind some idiot faux-Truffaut with my Anna Nicole Smith-sized box of Milk Duds.
But you know the fountainhead of all this bad behavior has got to be the daytime talk shows. What an intergalactic fucking freak show these are. You tell me, what Rusty the Bailiff Fan Club meeting do they go to harvest these losers? Ricki Lake? Richard Bey? Jerry Springer? These people shouldn't be allowed to own a TV, for chrissake, much less be on it.
And you know their guests not only aren't ashamed of their asinine antics, they positively revel in their own grand mal shitheadedness: Screaming in people's faces, screaming at the audience, the audience screaming back ...
I just want to say fuck this culture, pack up some jerky, and go time-share with Jeremiah Johnson.
Look, I'm not some tie-dyed karma maitre d' trying to seat everybody in the no-conflict section. Day-to-day life, to say the least, can be combative. As far as I'm concerned, the New Age goal of perpetual, smiling bliss is a far worse hell than anything imagined by Quentin Tarantino on windowpane.
