The Rants, page 8
But now this country is in the grip of a temper tantrum of cataclysmic proportions. At this rate we're only days away from having to install metal detectors in church.
Every little misstep in daily life, every minor tangle, every botched do-si-do, every burr on the dream of smooth sailing is a potential interpersonal Gulf of Tonkin incident. No sides, no cause, just sheer anger and rage.
You know, people are about to snap the minute they shoulder-roll out of bed in the morning. They're still angry about a dream where they didn't get laid. The snap factor is so high you're liable to get beaten to death with a canned ham in the supermarket just because your cart rear-ended some frustrated, psycho, Ninja-wanna-be's cart and you broke the head off one of his animal crackers.
And in America these days, that'll get you a Jimmy Arness kung fu star lodged right in the center of your forehead. And a jury won't even convict Grasshopper if the defense can produce the decapitated animal cracker.
You know ... Hey, it worked for the Menendez boys; it's probably going to spring The Juice into the open field; it's every bully's excuse these days, why not make it yours? "Do I know how fast I was going, Officer? Yeah, I do. I was doing a hundred and fifteen fuckin' miles an hour because I have a huge red pepper of rage lodged in my sphincter muscle." All right.
Let's cut to the chase. We're angry because we feel overlooked, inconsequential, and undervalued. And when we feel we don't matter it's easy to hurtle past the fail-safe point, and we are gone; we can no longer be called back by Strategic Air Command. They're impersonating our wife's voice, and we're headed for Baghdad with the radio off and phasers on "Go Fuck Yourself."
And I, for one, am not apologizing for it. Why shouldn't I be angry? Living in a culture where MTV gives an ass wipe VJ like Kennedy her own TV show. Everybody feels anger. I don't ever want to not feel anger. But the collective mistake we're making is this: Anger used to be a bass line that we used to merely provide a funky bottom to our cultural Zeitgeist.
But by not periodically adjusting our levels and assigning it its proper place in the mix, anger has now broken out into a shrieking Nugent guitar solo that's drawing a rivulet of blood from all of our ears.
This rising anger is the emotional head on a vast pimple of ignorance and fear. America is a melting pot of 250 million people who come from wildly different cultures, religions, and races, and all of them are feeling the pressure to succeed, to secure a place for themselves and their families. Being in America today is like being outside the gates of a Nine Inch Nails concert that's starting late, and the mood has turned from hopeful to fearful. The crowd has become a Day of the Locust mob. The jostling isn't friendly anymore; it's every man for himself. They just made the announcement that there aren't enough seats, it's first come first serve, and we're bracing for the big push.
We're angry in America because the fabric is tearing, the support rope is frayed, and the big gate is closing; time is running out and only the fierce little pig is going to suckle at the tit of plenty.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
the environment
YOU KNOW, I WAS DRIVING TO WORK IN L.A. THE other day and there was some guy on talk radio claiming that federal pollution rules are too tough. I would have called him to argue but because the smog was so thick I couldn't see the numbers on my car phone.
Has anyone seen the Los Angeles skyline lately? I think God invented the L.A. Basin so he'd have someplace to stub out his cigarettes. And we all know the problem is not just here in L.A., it's nationwide. Hell, it's global.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but we treat our whole planet the way college kids treat a frat house— we say we love it, then we piss on the stairs. There are so many oil spills our waterways are now classified "leaded" and "unleaded." By the year 2015, the earth's oceans will have a hard candy shell like an M&M. It'll be "Tupper- World." Eventually, every six weeks we'll have to burp the coastline.
And, as is frequently the case with human endeavors, there are two well-entrenched factions feuding over the environment, both convinced that their beliefs are sacred. But both sides probably aren't as far apart as they think they are on ecological matters. Remember—a developer is someone who wants to build a house in the woods. An environmentalist is someone who already owns a house in the woods.
But, truth be told, in a battle between corporate profits and the environment, the environment has about as much a chance of coming out on top as Pat Buchanan does of winning a "Soul Train" lifetime achievement award.
Will our politicians save us? Guess again, Woodsy Owl. They've already slashed the budget of the Interior Department, ended funding for environmental programs, and supported cleanup laws that are literally written by paid lobbyists from the industries that pollute the worst. When it comes right down to it, the green in our parks and forests will always take a backseat to the green in our legislators' wallets.
Where do I stand on the ecology?
Well, I don't want to sound like a wuss, but I'm somewhere in the middle on this one. I'm sure we all find it alarming that every year twenty thousand species become extinct and yet that Bronson Pinchot/Mark Linn-Baker piece of shit continues ad infinitum in syndication.
But then there's the flip side of this whole issue. Beyond ecology. Way out there on the fringe, we have the photo- synthetically-crazed zealots—you know, the kind of people who jerk off to The Hellstrom Chronicles—the people who will tell you that virtually anything we do can wreck the quote/unquote "delicate balance of nature."
I have no idea what that refers to. From what I can tell from the Discovery Channel, the earth has traditionally been about as well balanced as Amanda Plummer on a triple espresso.
I mean, do we need to save every last goddamn variation of sandbug known to man? Do we really need the three- clawed hermit crab? The insouciant crab? The cable-installer crab? Fuck the crabs ... and the seahorses they rode in on.
What we have to do is split the difference between utter disregard and paranoid concern and light down on pragmatic, well-reasoned, and, most importantly, attainable solutions. After all, we're talking about the future of our earth. The planet all of us call home, with the obvious exception of Bob Dornan.
So what are those solutions? Well, I think we all agree that the first step toward making this a greener planet is clearly, more songs by Sting.
But here are some other surefire recommendations to save the planet:
ONE—We need to all bite the Alva Edison bullet and reduce our power consumption. A nice first step in saving wattage might be to cut back on the number of digital electronic signs outside the Hard Rock Cafes alerting us to imminent problems in the ecosystem.
TWO—When using spray deodorants that contain chlorofluorocarbons, try not pointing it so much toward the ozone layer. We need the ozone, and currently, it has more holes in it than the plot of a Steve Allen murder mystery. Remember—the ozone keeps radiation out. The beach is no fun in a two hundred-pound lead muumuu. Unless of course, you're Alan Carr.
THREE—If you visit South America, don't burn down their rain forests.
FOUR—When you throw an aluminum can out your car window on the freeway, try to make sure it lands in a place easily visible so that the squares can clean it up.
FIVE—Get Hanna-Barbera to share the technology that allowed automobiles to run on foot power.
SIX—Petroleum companies, don't hire drunken freighter captains who'll inevitably end up spilling more oil around than Nick Barldey's barber. Christ, we're still paying the piper in Prince William Sound. If Exxon dragged its feet any more on that cleanup they'd look like Richard the Third.
SEVEN—Take your kids to an actual forest and not a theme park called Arbor Land, "where the trees almost seem kinda semi-real, don't they?"
EIGHT—Get rid of the mini malls. How many tanning sa- lons-slash-do-it-yourself frame store-slash-manicure parlor- slash-Mailbox USA-slash-Taekwondo doughnut joints do we fucking need?
NINE—Recycle. Get rid of the mini malls. How many tanning salons-slash-do-it-yourself frame store-slash-manicure parlor-slash-Mailbox USA-slash-Taekwondo doughnut joints do we fucking need?
AND TEN—Let's all be adaptable, people. There's always a compromise solution out there, if you just look hard enough for it. To all our friends in Taiwan—you guys like the taste of tiger penis soup? You think it's a delicacy, do you? Doesn't mean you have to kill the tiger. Use your heads. Just order a bowl of chicken broth . . . then have a tiger walk over and tea-bag his dick in it.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
the o.j. trial 6/30/95
THE O.J. TRIAL. “WELCOME BACK, MY FRIENDS, TO the show that never ends ... We're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside ... You're such a lovely audience, we'd like to take you home with us, we'd love ..." Oops. Sorry. Got a little fucked up there, trying to be cool.
Anyway—to call the O.J. Simpson trial a circus is an insult to trapeze artists and bearded ladies everywhere. This trial has gone on so long, Robert Shapiro and Johnnie Cochran have shed three skins. See you moaned and then you applauded. It hurt, but you dug it. The pace of this trial is beginning to make me yearn for a PBS pledge break.
You remember when it began? Remember how we would gather, grape Nehi in hand, around the local television showroom and watch Detective Fuhrman's testimony on that tiny black and white Philco? It was a simpler—innocent time.
Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but should this trial even be televised? Hey, I don't think O.J.'s performance in Towering Inferno should be televised, let alone his trial. But there it is on TV, bigger than Yeltsin's liver. Let's face it, television has given our legal system a skin peel, and the results ain't pretty.
We're all familiar with the cast of characters ...
Marcia Clark has been analyzed more intensely than Linda McCartney's vocal tracks.
Christopher Darden is so disillusioned he'll probably leave the legal profession and roam the earth like Kwai Chang Caine from "Kung Fu."
The witnesses and hangers-on? Well, let's start with that waste of space and volume known as Faye Resnick, who was actually encouraged to crawl out from under her rock long enough to write a tawdry, self-serving mani-"fester" in the guise of an homage to a departed friend. Hey, Faye, how much silicone does thirty pieces of silver buy nowadays?
After her, we were stuck with cranky cleaning ladies who couldn't get their story straight in any language and a dishwater-blond professional roommate who only surfs other people's careers.
Kato Kaelin is to pull-out couches what Bruce Lee was to nun-chucks.
And the expert witnesses proved to be neither. Dennis Fung's testimony dragged on longer than the opera house shoot-out at the end of The Godfather, Part III. This parade of experts has got to cease. You know, folks, there are statisticians out there who can prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that George Bush won the presidential election in 1992. Christ, there's an accountant right now in Hollywood who can prove to you that Forrest Gump lost money.
And then there's O.J.'s much-ballyhooed dream team. Despite the fact that there's a mountain of evidence against O.J. that Anna Nicole Smith could hang-glide off, the defense team's big counter-argument is that it's a frame- up, a highly sophisticated police conspiracy. The rest of us know that's impossible—the LAPD can't even thin out traffic after a Dodger game.
Johnnie Cochran could sell you a plate of shit and have you asking for seconds. F. Lee Bailey's spewing out scenarios more deranged than a pitch meeting at the new Paramount Network. And Robert Shapiro's the only guy who uses a stretch limo to chase ambulances. And that demented little Tolkien character Carl Douglas should just shut the fuck up and go to a spa.
Of course, how could the case not be riveting with Judge Lance Ito at the helm? When Ito says "Jump," people say, "So, anyway I was ..." I wish Ito would just cut the showbiz crap and just tilrn to O.J. and say, "So what's up with this shit, man, are you guilty or what?"
Even outside, the grounds around the courthouse look more like the souvenir gauntlet at the NASCAR championships. I'm fairly certain you can get a set of those "Free OJ" corn tongs and a "Guilty/Not Guilty" car freshener for under twenty bucks.
Finally, there's Orenthal James Simpson himself, sitting at the defense table, making more faces than Hugh Grant explaining things to Liz Hurley.
You know I honestly believe O.J. thinks he's innocent. I think he's strolling into the courtroom each day much the same way Ed Wood showed up on the set for Plan 9 from Outer Space, and he'll be utterly flabbergasted if the jury gives his little opus twelve thumbs down.
And yet, here's the really sad part—Instead of being repulsed by all this, every day, millions of us religiously tune in to rubberneck this intergalactic freak show.
The media claim that they're just doing their job, feeding the news appetite of the American people. I guess it's really not their fault that we happen to be bulimic.
The key thing we must all remember about the O.J. trial is that it is trial by flurry.
Lawyers on both sides bicker incessantly over matters that have precious little to do with discovering the truth. This thing is going slower than Jimmy Stewart reciting the Mahabharata on the back of an arthritic tortoise that's munching a quaalude on a humid Sunday afternoon in a hammock hung between two trees in the intensified gravity of the planet Jupiter.
And despite the fact that our belief in the American legal system has been stretched thinner than Robert Shapiro's conscience, we are simply going to have to wait for the cheap gears of justice to grind a decision out of this fake wood pepper mill. But I for one am through with it, and have been for a long while. He's guilty.
You know it, I know it, we all know it. So wait for sweeps week, schedule the jury's decision after "Seinfeld," announce that he's guilty, and throw away the fuckin' key. You're a punk, O.J. A bad guy. Go to hell.
Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.
what's right with america
YOU KNOW, NORMALLY ON MY HBO SHOW I COME out here week after week and piss on everything like a drunk yard cat. You know that. That's my job. I've always felt I'm paid to find things that are wrong and then do my best to throw the switch on the perimeter floods and light it up. Tonight we're supposed to talk about what's right with America. Now I know you've got to burrow pretty deep to unearth any underlying confidence in a nation that's sapped of its vigor, strafed by violence, and pummeled senseless by the debasement of every institution from the Armed Services to Baseball. That being said, Are we gonna have some fun tonight?! Yeah, all right. That was rhetorical. Now I don't want to get off on a rant here, but you know, there's a lot right with America! Nowadays, you just have to look a little harder for it. Sure, we're sick of paying for illegal immigrant kids to go to school and we're going to stop. But only a country that did it for a while can stop doing it. See? People don't ever consider that.
And okay, we nearly exterminated the Native Americans. Nobody tries to hide that anymore. But we did change our textbooks so the facts came out. I mean, who else does that? Only America. And as if admitting the truth wasn't enough, we don't even tax their casinos. And us— with a 4-trillion-dollar debt! I'm saying not taxing billions in Indian bingo loot is magnanimous and should be in the "What's Right with America" column!
How's about this—in America, we let people in prison read, study law, even work out so they can get themselves out of jail in much better mental and physical shape to resume their lives of crime. A lot of countries treat their criminals like animals, like sub-humans, as if they'd done something wrong! Not America. Not this great country.
I'm not a complete ethno-centrist. I went over to France earlier this year for a couple of months, to see if I might live there. And while I enjoyed my time in Paris, I should tell you that the French hate our guts. I cannot believe they actually gave us the Statue of Liberty. They must've been throwing it out anyway. Because these people detest us. They look at us and we are one, big, collective Jethro bearing down on them, rope belt and all. And you know something? In all fairness, we might be hicks, but at least we're hicks who tend to our armpits more frequently than once every time Comet Kohoutek is in the solar system. These people avoid showers like a blonde at the Bates Motel. They had to invent perfume. It wasn't an augmentation, it was a defense mechanism. Trust me, when Louis the XIV guillotined you, he was doing you a big favor separating your olfactory senses from your brainstem. "Yeah, Claude, paint the water lilies a little later. Right now I need you to pick up that loofa and storm the pit Bastille, all right?" Thank you, Pepe LePeux. I had a cabdriver over there, smelled like a man eating Gorgonzola cheese while getting a permanent inside the septic tank of a slaughterhouse. I said, "Hey, pal. There's an extra five in it for ya if you run over a fucking skunk." So, there's another reason why this country's great. We smell better than most.
Another reason we're great is because we create things here, things of unique beauty, things that unconsciously interweave the American attributes of ingenuity, optimism, gluttony, and narrow-mindedness. Things like: "All You Can Eat" Restaurants ... The Clapper ... Street-legal, semi-automatic grenade weapons that even the Tontons Macoute didn't have ... The Temporary Insanity Plea ... Cutting-edge CD-ROM technology used for porno ... deep-fried cheese ... bans on toy guns... rain ponchos for dogs ... Orange Julius ... Orange County ... beer can hats ... plea bargaining ... being able to plug your parents with bullets and getting acquitted ... indeed we're even free over here to subscribe to 500 channels of cable only to find out that that piece of shit, William Katt's superhero show, is on 498 of them ... You know ... As a matter of fact, you want to know what's right with America more than anything? Our right to speak out about everything that's wrong with it. And we're all free to vent at will—at least for the next couple of days till Gingrich takes over and straps the rat cage on our collective face.
