Is Superman really Fabulousman?

Is Superman gay? It’s okay if he is. We should be okay with that. He does wear powder blue nylons and red leather boots. And a cape. He’s a bit of a dandy; it’s safe to say. He is very well-groomed. He has great hair.

This year, America was treated to another Superman movie. Superheroes are enjoying a tremendous rise in popularity lately. That’s understandable considering the prevailing uncertainty and fear that our government encourages. But really, is Superman all that super? If he is a projection of the perfect man, what’s the kryptonite all about? Achilles had his heel, I guess. Sampson’s hair. If I were a feminist, I would say that the kryptonite is quite possibly a symbol of Superman’s fear of inadequacy… erectile dysfunction. Maybe there’s more to that phrase that Superman yells, “Up, up and… away?”

Why doesn’t Superman have sex in the movies? Of course, his costume has no buttons or zippers. And he wears it underneath his clothes. Does he ever take it off? Does he launder it? Does he have a few backups?

Nietzsche coined the term Superman (Ubermensch). Nietzsche and Superman are both existentialists. Does Superman ever get depressed? Maybe Superman is bipolar. Split personality. Schizophrenic super hero?

Is Lois Lane a member of the so-called liberal media?

A lot of the other superheroes are pretty silly. And honestly, it isn’t fair that men have a Superman while women get stuck with a Wonderwoman. I’d rather be “super” than “wonder.”

We don’t really have myths in this country. We’re not big on legends, unless they play professional sports. So, why do we cling to this high-flying dandy in a fabulous outfit?

The creation of superheroes offers a glimpse into our subconscious and what Carl Jung referred to as our culture’s collective unconscious and… basically, just crap that turns us on. And since we did our best to destroy the myths of North America’s native inhabitants, we employed a collection of disgruntled comic book geeks to create spandexed superheroes and villains with capes, cowls and silly boots. But they always have great hair. Have there been any bald superheroes? Mr. Clean doesn’t count. He’s in sales.

Last year, the US Army was creating a comic book superhero to distribute in the Middle East. Part of their psychological warfare operations. I’m not sure if the comic was ever finished. It’s a great idea, though, isn’t it? If bunker busters can’t subdue the Middle East and eradicate terrorism, drawings of steroid-ripped, fabulously dressed superheroes with unusual powers and undetermined sexual orientation should finish the job.

I was looking at comic book superheroes in other countries and I have to say, Brazil is impressive. Basically, they have a lot of Hot Chick Superheroes. When I was a kid, I would have preferred this to the Batman series and my older brother’s Archie comics.

As for India… I really love that country, but their superheroes look a little goofy…

This guy’s name is Shaktimaan.  He’s an Eastern Indian version of Erik Estrada.  Kind of looks like a costume from the Jacksons Victory Tour 1985. Or maybe Earth, Wind & Fire.

Australia celebrates a superhero/detective named Lionel Demane…

We’ve seen these guys before, haven’t we?

Mexico can get a little silly..

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The Netherlands created an interesting superhero. Zeeuws Meisje is a farm girl. The story goes that after The Great Traffic Jam, all the roads were useless and agriculture nearly destroyed – except for pickles. This is no Al Gore documentary. I’m not making this up. The Farm Girl doesn’t have any super powers, but solves problems with her very high intelligence.

I don’t think this would ever work in America. A woman in dowdy farm clothes solving practical environmental problems with simple intelligence? Impossible.

Germany’s Baron Munchhausen is an adventurer who tells incredible stories of riding cannonballs and traveling to the moon.

He doesn’t wear spandex and his abs are definitely not ripped.

I suppose everyone has their own idea of a superhero based on desires, archetypes and fears.

I just think we in America can do a little better than Superman. And taking a close look at him with his red, leather boots, cape and hair product – he’s actually more Fabulous Man.

We should create a new superhero that is indisputably better than all the others. Rather than Super, he could be The Best Man. But that’s too matrimonial. He would have to wear a nice tux as a costume. And there would have to be Divorce Man and Mistress as the villains.

Let’s face it, “super” is no longer good enough for us. How about The Greatest Man? Or just The Number One Man? And the villain could be a woman. How about Miss Fit? She could be an athletic, aerobics-obsessed, sexy villain with cut abs and dangerously low body fat.

Climbing the Gates of Paramount – Valuable Tips on How to Break Into the Film Biz

In defense of Aleksey Vayner… I don’t know how many of you are aware of this guy. He’s a junior at Yale who sent a video resume to financial institutions. On the video, he stages a mock interview with a screen presence that rivals the pretension of William F. Buckley. In a comical, self-important tone, Vayner talks about his personal philosophy, which sounds like a pastiche of some well-worn self-help motivational books and dialogue from the “Rambo” franchise. Things like, “Failure is not an option.” Then, to really push the “resume” into the absurd, Vayner includes clips of himself supposedly ski jumping, breaking a stack of bricks with a martial arts strike, ballroom dancing, hitting a “140 mph” tennis serve and lifting “495 lbs.”… damn, just short of 500. I like the way he showed some restraint, here. I mean, who would believe that he could bench press 500 lbs? But 495… sure.

So, he may have embellished his exploits a bit. Some joker in the personnel department at one of the investment firms that Vayner applied to leaked the video resume. A little site called YouTube (valued at a 1.65 gazillion dollars) got a hold of it and the rest is history. The kid is the laughing stock of the internet – which, I guess, means the world.

Yale newspapers and blogs have had a field day feeding on one of their own. And honestly, I feel sorry for the kid. He didn’t want everyone to see this video. Just prospective employers. And sure, that’s a little stupid. But what’s with all those ponces at Yale making fun of him? Haven’t we all done stupid shit? I’m the King of Stupid Shit. The kid was just trying to get a job. Although, Vayner also claims to have authored a book, Women’s Silent Tears, a women’s perspective of the Holocaust, which consists of plagiarized passages from other books. Okay, so maybe he’s a little nuts.

I am reminded, however, of my own attempt to find employment while roaming around New York, suffering from something like dissociative fugues during the recession of the early 90’s. I wrote a series of humorous (or, so I thought) letters to magazines. The letter was corny and I’d hate to have anyone publish it. All I remember was ending it with, “At least interview me, I own a great new suit.”

A couple of the magazines actually called and asked me to come in for an interview. The interviews were disasters. The junior editor of a magazine, Connoisseur, was very cool and informed me that I would need a trust fund to work at the magazine and survive in New York. All the other new employees had them. In fact, he made it clear that I may be the only guy in New York City without a trust fund.

My next interview was Vogue magazine.

I don’t remember who I interviewed with but I remember that she looked like my alcoholic/saidistic 6th grade math teacher. Her face looked like one of those Northern European renaissance portraits by Jan Van Eyck or Hans Holbein of royalty who pose with an expression that looks like they are in desparate need of a good shit.

She asked me what it was about Vogue that I found interesting. I told her that I thought the magazine smelled really good. I then laughed too loud out of nervousness. She managed to not move one muscle in her face in response. I could have stood up and urinated on the coffee table between us and generated less disdain.

I didn’t get the job. In fact, I barely made enough money to survive that year, slept on couches of college friends with practical degrees in finance and listed my occupation as “Malcontent” on my IRS return.

So, how far have I come?

A few months ago, I surpassed some of my past stupidity in the interview process. I was up for a pretty high profile job at Paramount. MTV Films was thinking of re-making Urban Cowboy.

I worked with a producer and put together a treatment. In fact, I spent so much time developing this thing… discussing, endlessly, what Bud’s dream is and what Sissy’s dream is. Character arcs and narrative spines and all that shit that development executives love to talk about ‘til the fucking cows come home. In fact, I could have filmed a clay-mation version of the film all by myself in the time we spent discussing Bud’s character arc. And, honestly, the most impressive thing about the original was Debra Winger riding a mechanical bull in a flimsy top. It literally launched me into puberty.

So, anyway, this was my final pitch to MTV Films. I got to the Paramount gate and realized that I forgot my wallet. Since 9/11, the studios are insane about security. They wouldn’t let me in. I told them that I was expected at MTV Films. Yes, I was on the list with a drive-on pass, but without an ID to prove who I was, someone from MTV would have to come to the gate and walk me in.

I drove away. I was too embarrassed to have everyone in the meeting know that I was stuck at the gate. So, I drove into the adjacent neighborhood and parked on the street. I walked past the main gate and along the wall surrounding the studio compound. That’s it. Fuck it! I’m going over the wall.

It’s not an easy wall to get over. You have to find a remote area, preferably far away from the building in which your meeting is scheduled. At this point, I was late and imagined executives at MTV watching as a prospective writer/director climbs over the studio wall outside their window.

I found a spot and began climbing, immediately grateful for all the pull-ups I’ve done at Venice Beach.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Studio security. I didn’t even see him walk up.
How does one respond? “I’m going over the wall,” I say.
“I can see that.”

I thought about running. I could have outrun him. But I felt stupid. There, I was… a man in his 30’s climbing a wall to get a job.

A mild, perfunctory threat of arrest was made, but I could tell the Security Guard’s heart wasn’t in it and I detected a degree of admiration that I actually made the climb.

Someone eventually had to come from MTV Films and escort me onto the lot. I felt like I was taken to the principal’s office. As for Urban Cowboy, I didn’t get the job. After all that work, detailed treatment and the distillation of “Bud and Sissy’s dream.” And my erotic memories of Debra Winger on the bull. And my climbing skills.  My agent told me that things are pretty shaky and unstable at Paramount  right now and the project wasn’t moving forward. Frankly, I think I shit the bed on the pitch. I was a little distracted, after all (and winded).

So, back to our young Yalie, Aleksey Vayner.

I hope the guy gets a job and he can laugh at this misstep eventually. Internet infamy is ephemeral, let’s hope. If someone has footage of my athletic entrance onto the Paramount lot, I wouldn’t mind a good laugh at my expense. That kind of perspective comes with age. And being the King of Stupid Shit.

And, finally, here’s the tip: If you really want to break into Hollywood… and nothing else works… there’s a little section of the wall surrounding Paramount Studios near the corner of Melrose and Van Owen that is relatively easy to scale. I suggest comfortable shoes with traction.

A Survey of World Leader’s Hair Styles and Why I Miss Old-Fashioned Communism

Yesterday, I was reading about the North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il and I couldn’t help but notice… he has the worst hair of any world leader… present or past.

The glasses are a bit more Nicholson than Bono. But the hair? It’s just bad hair. The profile is worse…

Is it teased up to add a few inches to Kim’s dimunitive stature? I read somewhere that he’s actually shorter than Napoleon.

This guy, despite his comic appearance, makes me sad. I feel a wave of nostalgia… for good, old school Communism. I know that North Korea is one of the few remaining Communist states, but it’s not the fun kind of Communism that I grew up with. The Communism that we all loved to hate like a schoolyard bully.

The world is a mess right now. It really is. I found the secrecy and deadlock of the Cold War much more comforting. Bring back Communism of the big, bad Soviet Union kind. America needs a big, simple enemy. Like a crosstown rival. It’s healthy. The Olympics were so much more exciting, then. We knew who to root for. We knew that East German women athletes were cheating and using steroids. You can’t hide much in a swimsuit. Now, all the athletes use “performance enhancement” drugs. They don’t even have the decency to restrict themselves to simple, good, old-fashioned testosterone.

And Communism also inspired all those great 80’s movies like “Gorky Park,” “Moscow on the Hudson,” “White Nights.”

“Say you, say me…” Sing it, Lionel.

I need to know who to be a afraid of. I like the idea of the Iron Curtain. That’s so wonderfully dramatic. And the Berlin Wall. The mystery is exciting. But, not to digress. Back to hair. I know that Kim Jong Il is a really bad guy who just so happens to think he’s divine, but who wants a silly villain with effeminate hair?

Our very own G.W. has the standard issue, “regular” haircut. When I was a kid, you could walk into a barbershop and just say, “I’ll have the regular.” That’s what Jr. gets. Frankly, it’s boring.

He needs to be more aggressive. A little more hip. Kerry had kind of a helmet on his head. Maybe to remind us that, despite a nasty, fictional smear campaign, he really did captain a swift boat. God, those Republican PR guys are good. I wish I could hire them.

Reagan and Stalin both used a lot of hair product. The result… one is beloved as a grandfather who may forget sometimes while the other is reviled as a heartless dictator who never forgot the names of his enemies. But maybe it was just the mustache…

What about Tony Blair? He used to sport a rock and roll, Haight-Ashbury look, but then he caved and went with the Bush “regular.” If he had held firm and stuck with his own rebel look (although it’s very “Spinal Tap” and not flattering at all), then maybe he wouldn’t have followed Bush into Iraq like a little schoolboy.

Does the kid on the left look like he wants to go to war in the Middle East? Not the brawler type. However he does look a little gullible.

I like Japan’s prime minister Koizumi. I’m not a big fan of the style, but at least he doesn’tlook like every other world leader..

Upon further consideration… it might be a little silly. But the guy actually has a personality and a good sense of humor and perhaps he’s just having some fun…

Mary Robinson, president of Ireland, sports the female equivalent of “the regular.”

It’s not very exciting, but it got her elected. Maybe someday our progressive nation will elect a woman as president… Nahhh. Even Ireland, not known to travel in the fast lane of social progress…

Okay, this blog is getting boring. You can talk about hair for only so long. But we should at least feature Gaddafi. I like that he stays with the same cut, but just a added a hat to disguise any thinning and re-invent himself as a benign world leader.

Oh, and then there’s this guy… former dictator in desperate need of a Queer Eye makeover.

So much potential there, just wasted. What a shame. Although, wait. Maybe the Hussein look is becoming vogue. Hollywood is so fickle. It’s like the WWE wrestling. Good guys become bad guys, become good guys again. It’ as confusing as world politics.

And then there’s Bashir, president of Sudan. Most Americans couldn’t point to Sudan on a map. It’s not really a place of interest. Just a little run-of-the-mill genocide, “ethnic cleansing” and civil war. An Islamist government supporting militias that torture, murder and rape. 1.5 million people dead from Civil War. 400,000 displaced in Darfur. But China already has their oil… so, fuck it.

Ah, there’s the problem. We’re not interested in Darfur, genocide or Sudan because we can’t see President Bashir’s hair. And not only that, he has the sloppiest turban I’ve ever seen. Unacceptable.

If only we could go back to the black and white of the Cold War. Religious zealots (even in our country), war lords, ancient sectarian disputes… it’s all so very confusing. It’s nothing like pro wrestling. It doesn’t make for good movies. And I can’t imagine Lionel Richie or Phil Collins writing the theme song.

Hair is far more cut and dry than world politics.

That’s a pun, isn’t it? I hate puns.

Bipolar? Or Just Human?

My friend emailed me the other day to ask if I was happy? It took me a few days to respond because I wasn’t very comfortable with my answer. Am I happy? Right now? No. Sometimes? Sure. I’m ecstatic sometimes. But right now, I’m not. And maybe I’m okay with that. Maybe later, I’ll be happy, again. Does that make me bipolar? I don’t think so. Human and moody? Probably.

Have you noticed all the advertisements on television for anti-depressants and sleep aids in between reality shows displaying a variety of mental disorders and dysfunction within families with monstrous kids, cosmetic surgery makeovers, models out modeling each other? “Ask your doctor if Paxil is right for you,” the commercials advise. That means, basically, self-prescribe. After all, who knows you better than you do? But should we really be prescribing drugs for ourselves based on a general list of symptoms that any normal person with the IQ of a chimp should experience?

Why do we think that we should all bounce around giggling like a Disney cartoon? I’d rather ride the ups and downs. I must say that I’ve known a few poor souls who sink to such depths that living is too painful. They need help. But most of us should feel sad once in a while. After all, there’s a lot of sad shit happening all over the world. And if it makes us sad, if we find that our eyes tear up during the evening news… then we might just be human… empathizing with other humans. Imagine that. Frankly, if you don’t feel sad once in a while, then you might as well go back to swinging from tree limbs, picking bugs off your friend’s ass and figuring out how to make a rudimentary tool out of a broken branch. We’re human. We should feel things.

I know quite a few people who work in the entertainment business who obsess over their mood, physical ailments and share a generally bleak and dismal outlook. They complain all the time that they’re wealthy and successful, yet they’re so unhappy. But here’s the rub… they’re assholes! They should be miserable! They treat people like shit and spend their days knotted up with envy, jealousy and a plummeting self-esteem. So, they consult psychiatrists and quickly jump on a cycle of anti-depressants. To the doctors, I say, “Don’t write the prescriptions! They’re assholes! They should be depressed! They should be fetal position, pillow-clutching depressed! They’ve earned it!”

Personally, I would like to see empathy make a big comeback. I think we should start taking pills to “feel” even more than we do now. I’m not saying that I hope we all start weeping and hugging through melodramatic, manipulative insurance commercials, but I’d like to see people stop numbing themselves. Then maybe we’ll get pissed off more about abuse of our environment, education, women being treated like shit all over the world and you know… big issues.

So, you’re feeling a little down, huh? Come on, you bunch of apes, get off your asses and stand up! Don’t make a monthly donation to drug companies and your local doctor. Smoke a joint, take a walk, get laid or – here’s a novel idea – do something to improve yourself, your community. Just do something.

I feel a good mood coming on.

Shameful Confession

I have a confession. This is a big moment for me. I normally hate confessional pieces, whether in print or worse, on video. But I’m coming out of the closet… sort of. And I think I’ll feel better about it after.

I have to preface my confession with a quick story. It’s not even a story. It’s just a moment that really affected me. I was driving along in a very masculine, gas-guzzling SUV. I had manly shit stowed in the back: a batting helmet, two bats, a fishing pole, rope (guys always have rope – we rarely have a need for it but we carry it), jumper cables, a few dirty rags. The SUV is black and my arm is bent in the window in a manly way – as if I’m actually holding up the roof of the car. Guys do this because it makes our arms look good.

Okay, here’s the part that is not manly at all. I’m listening to… George Michael’s solo CD, Older. And I’m singing along with it. Strange… don’t you think I’m looking older? But something good is happening… change is a stranger.

I pull up to the light, still singing with the window open. I see a couple cars pull up next to me and I hit the radio with such sudden force that instead of changing to a radio station, I hit the volume so that George is blasting out of my SUV. I quickly change it to a classic rock station. The girl next to me is smiling. Is she laughing at me? Should I hold up my batting helmet and rope? But that might scare her. This is LA, after all. It may look like a threat rather than an attempt to recapture a masculine image.

You’re out of time, I’m letting go… I’m not the man you want. Sing it, George.

Okay, so here it goes…. This is my confession… I like George Michael. His music, not him as a sexual object. And I want to clarify that I like his solo stuff. Not “Wham!”

I feel better already. Look, I still love The Band, Van Halen, and The Boss.

I still enjoy the company of a beautiful woman and given the choice between beer in a glass or a bottle, I take the bottle. I even enjoy the blue-collar comfort of a can. I’m a man. But… I like George Michael. Forget that he used to wear neon green Daisy Dukes and scream “Baby, I’m your man!” Or that he exposed himself in a Beverly Hills bathroom to the undercover cop that just so happened to be urinating next to him. Or, that he was recently arrested in England in the park bushes with his pants down. Maybe he just has a small bladder.

I can’t help it… I like the guy’s music, dammit. When I hear it, I gotta’ sing it. I wish I had the courage to play it loud and proud at stoplights. But I don’t. I wanna’ hear from other closeted, heterosexual G.M fans out there. We should support each other. We have rights.

George Thorogood. George Michael. What’s the difference? It’s all good music.

Existentialism and Ben Affleck… or Why I Don’t Hate Ben Affleck

I’m not a celebrity. I can count the number of times on almost one hand that I’ve been given the celebrity treatment (actually two hands, but who’s counting? Okay, me. I’m counting.) I used to include the time I was chauffeured around at a film festival in a black Lincoln Town Car. Volunteers escorted other filmmakers at the festival in shitty, little economy cars, but since our film was chosen as the closing night gala screening, I thought that it was nice of the festival organizers to afford us the distinction of a black Town Car with tinted windows. It felt very rock-n-roll to pull up in front of screenings and parties – disguised by the tinted windows – pouring out of the back seat in front of everyone gawking. Then I learned that it was by pure chance that the volunteer assigned as our host was a funeral director. He drove a company car – a black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. My rock-n-roll fantasy was shattered by the thought of all the mourners who had sat in that back seat waiting in funeral processions. Black suits and ties and dark sunglasses. Grieving families. It ruined the whole rock-n-roll fantasy. Travis, if you’re reading this… you still made us feel like rock stars.

Or the time I watched an Oasis concert from a private suite. That was nice, I must say. But I was honestly uncomfortable with the elitism of watching a concert from a suite with catered food and a guy who ran over to give me a new beer before I could swallow the flat, lukewarm backwash at the bottom of the old one. I should be out on the floor sweating and getting doused with cups of beer. Regardless, the Gallagher brothers of Oasis were whining away and most likely loaded and uninspired. So, I leave the suite to use the bathroom. (I’m switching tense if you don’t mind.) I notice a guy double back and follow me into the men’s room. Standing next to me at the urinals, he glances over a few times. This is always an awkward scenario. Is he gay? Does he think he knows me? Is he just doing a quick, harmless survey size comparison?

I finish at the urinal – thank God I don’t have a shy bladder – and walk to the sink. The guy follows. “Can I help you with something?” I’m annoyed, now.
“Sorry, man, you’re just… you’re so funny… you’re a fuckin’ riot, dude,” he says.
“Thanks, man.” Honestly, I’m flattered. I’m a whore for any compliment.
“I love everything you’ve done,” he says.
“Thanks. Can I get a paper towel?” Wait a minute. Everything I’ve done? I think about it for a minute while I dry my hands. Everything? I starred in an independent film that he probably hasn’t seen. I had just received a call from a network to tell me that the show I had been written onto as the famous-actor/star-of-the-show’s “new, masculine friend” had been cancelled. They thought the show needed a new, comic, “guy’s guy” to beef it up. It was flattering that the producers thought of me as anyone’s “new masculine friend” but the network cancelled the show. More heartbreak and another lost job. But that’s the biz.
“So, who am I?” I ask.
“C’mon, man.”
“No, seriously,” I ask, “who do you think I am?”
“Dude, you’re Andy Dick.”
Let me say something quickly in my defense. I was wearing black-framed, Dolce&Gabbana glasses and my hair was particularly moppish and curly that night. But Andy Dick? C’mon! I was just cast as a famous actor’s masculine friend. So, how can I now be mistaken for Andy Dick?
“Sorry, dude, I’m not Andy Dick. Can’t you see how masculine I am?” I would have settled for anyone else… maybe even David Spade with better hair. Why Andy Dick?
The guy laughs, “You’re fuckin’ with me. That’s funny.”
I walk out of the bathroom. He follows me.
“C’mon, just meet my friends. We’ll buy you a beer.”
“I ’m not Andy Dick.”
A few steps later and I’m standing in front of a whole group of guys. They look so eager, excited.
“Guys, I’m not Andy Dick. Look at these pipes… (I flex, shamelessly) I’m too masculine to be Andy Dick.” They all laugh.
They want to buy me a beer. They look so sincere. What harm is there in letting them buy me a beer? Or two? Or three? Import, even. And what harm is there in affecting a bit more of a feminine lilt to my voice and physical posturing that didn’t suggest time spent in a gym? And maybe the subtlest of lisps? I wasn’t impersonating. I was entertaining. I know it’s unethical and I’m not proud, but the guys bought several rounds and they seemed very pleased. And damn, was I funny! Everything I said scored. I was just killing them.

I went home, got a haircut and put the glasses away.

Okay, I’m at a film festival and I’m drinking a martini with Graham Greene, the Oscar-nominated actor who played Kicking Bird in Dances With Wolves. Film festivals create unnatural hype for average, small-budget films to experience the attention of A-list star-driven vehicles. It’s kind of like being voted Most Popular at a Summer Camp full of nerds. So, anyway, I know I’m being cynical, but I’m tired of the whole film festival scene. It’s like being at a bad high school party where everyone gets drunk and you might have a chance to fuck someone that you wouldn’t normally have a chance with. Again, forgive me. I’m laying the cynicism a little thick. So, back to the festival. There I am at a party sponsored by Grey Goose Vodka and a local chocolate factory – which is a brilliant combination, by the way. I’m drinking a martini with Graham Greene who is incredibly complimentary about my performance in our film. It’s weird because I absolutely loved Dances With Wolves! And here I am talking shop with Kicking Bird and he’s drinking a huge martini in a fancy glass and wearing a loud, Hawaiian shirt. He’s very cool. And I desperately want to put my fingers up like buffalo horns and say “ta tonka, ta tonka” but I know that would be very uncool.

So, as we sip martinis, two guys are looking at me from across the room. Finally, they walk over and say “We saw your movie and we were just looking at you… We could probably take you. You’re so much smaller in person.”
“Well, maybe you should try.” I say.
I look at Graham Greene for a little help – “you got my back, right Kicking Bird” – but he just keeps sipping his martini.
They two guys back down. Not because I intimidated them, but because the party hosts had just set up a huge chocolate fountain behind me with a mountain of free gourmet chocolate.

This experience wouldn’t be so bad if it happened just once, but I got that same comment (without the physical threat attached) at several screenings where I appeared to do a Q&A session: “You’re so much smaller than I thought you’d be.” So, apparently I’m disappointing in person. What do they expect, that I’ll lumber into the party and be 17 feet tall like I was on the movie screen? It just isn’t fair.

Speaking of shit-flinging apes… I’m at a Hollywood bar. I hate Hollywood bars. A group of guys stand in a corner – the type of guys that you just want to throw a bottle of beer at and yell, “Douchebags!” That’s no way for a guy with a master’s degree to behave, so I don’t. But these guys with their perfectly messed up hair and well-thought-out, seemingly casual sartorial ensemble. These guys… They’re Ben bashing – just ruthlessly ripping the oeuvre of the American actor, Ben Affleck. They turn to me… I don’t have anything bad to say about Ben Affleck. What am I supposed to say, “Yeah, he’s a fag! He sucks!” Or, “Gigli was a piece of shit.” “How come he can’t get it on with a girl who isn’t named Jennifer?” How about… “I met him and he’s so much smaller in real life.” No. I don’t say anything. At this moment I realize… I don’t hate Ben Affleck. I just don’t. Does that make me unhip? I don’t hate Brittany Spears, either. And Tom Cruise seems a little over-enthusiastic but so was Howard Dean and he’s okay. I realize that there is one thing America loves more than a celebrity… a damaged one.

I met Ben Affleck at a party once. I’ll be honest. He’s better looking than me. He’s much taller than I expected (most actors are tiny). And his career is quite a bit more successful. Are these reasons to hate him? Absolutely! But I don’t. He was actually very nice, charming and he’s a die-hard Red Sox fan. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have fantasies of beating up Matt Damon and becoming Ben’s new “masculine best friend.” Ben and I going to Sox games together in matching Ortiz jerseys, fishing and canoeing together, practicing a special handshake, buying squirt guns at Fanuiel Hall Marketplace and chasing each other all the way to the State House. That would be weird.

In all honesty, I guess I really don’t care about Ben Affleck. Why should I? I mean, I wish him well like I would anyone. But I’m shocked when I hear people get so worked up bashing celebrities. I mean, who gives a shit who Brittany Spears marries? And whether she’s pregnant or just loves Ring Dings and Hostess cupcakes?

Have you ever seen a celebrity eat? I saw Jennifer Lopez (Ben’s first Jennifer) eat a fruit cup with all the grace of a Jersey cow, but she’s still beautiful and sexy.

And I don’t hate her for it. Celebrities eat and shit just like the rest of us. I was in a bathroom at the Fermosa in Hollywood and a well-known actor – famous for his role in “Pulp Fiction” – walked straight into a stall, sat down and started singing at the top of his lungs, a perfect Frank Sinatra impression, while evacuating his bowels…

“The Summer wind… comes blowing in… (audible fart)
Across the sea… (louder fart)”

This experience begs the question: Is the mechanism of evolution – an intelligent drive toward a more complex, sentient, self-aware being – evidence of the will of a Supreme Architect? A God? Or are we a bunch of orphans who construct elaborate fantasies about a loving Parent who is concerned with every action we take? Are we sad, soulless robots in a Philip Dick novel with an inherited imprint of survival and a refusal to accept the terrifying possibility that our existence is meaningless and ephemeral?

So, back to Ben Affleck, schaudenfreude and celebrities in general…

There was one time at a Dodger game that a woman came up to me during the one week that my film was playing in Los Angeles and complimented me on the movie. She thought I was great in the lead and I never stood up from my seat to give her a chance to say that I looked smaller in person. She was genuine and sincere and, for the life of me, I can’t say anything cynical about the experience. It felt really cool. People all around me turned and looked. Granted, they all had an expression that said, “Who the fuck are you?” But it felt good to be singled out, recognized. And isn’t that what celebrity is all about? Isn’t that why we hate them and love them all at the same time? We all want to feel that. To feel special. Singled out amid the maddening routine of existential despair. To be the one ape that has the balls or ingenuity to get off his knuckles and walk upright for a moment while all the other apes sit and gawk, admire and dream. Then a few of the other apes get jealous and start flinging their shit at you because that’s what apes do. And some ape will inevitably walk over, look you up and down and say…

“You look so much smaller than you did before you were walking upright.”

Croc Hunter, Steve Irwin

Last week, “Crocodile Hunter” Steve Irwin was killed instantly when a giant stingray speared him through the heart. You could not fabricate a more sensationalist headline for the untimely death of an adventurer. But it really happened. I was saddened by the news. I liked the guy. But I’m ashamed to admit that almost immediately after thinking of the family he left behind, the very next thought that entered my head was… Did they get it on film?

I’m ashamed to admit that. What’s wrong with me? In my defense, I plead that I’ve been brainwashed.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” “Isn’t she gorgeous?

Personally, I never found those crocodiles gorgeous or beautiful except when they’re sewn together as boots and belts but Steve Irwin sure-as-shit did. And I admired that he loved all creatures, even really ugly ones.

Steve Irwin had an infectious, child-like enthusiasm for life. You also really got a sense that beneath his over-the-top TV delivery, the guy really loved these knobby, pre-historic creatures. In an age of polarized personalities – the extreme cynicism on one hand and the lemming-like patriotism and religious fervor on the other– Steve Irwin made me feel good about being alive. It was nice to see a guy with a pageboy haircut and a modified Boy Scout uniform run around and just be so damn positive about life. I often thought that I would like to join his ranks and wrestle crocs. It just seemed that he was living more than the rest of us.

But they were filming, right? And someone must have the footage.

I can’t help it. Why? First of all, we Americans film everything. I mean, everything. In fact, nothing seems real anymore unless it is captured on film. And the stuff that really turns us on is the horrible shit that you shouldn’t want to watch. We flip through cable channels and watch hours of personal tragedies, wedding disasters, Machiavellian competitions, graphic medical procedures. In fact, I feel confident that with sterile instruments, a shot of Jack Daniels and a good nurse, I could perform several routine surgeries myself. We have seen things that no other generation has. There is very little mystery left. We are intimately familiar with tragedy, pain and death – albeit our experience is limited to digital images… with surround sound.

What happens to a culture exposed to too much tragedy… in hi-def surround sound? We have become a people obsessed with dread. We dread everything – debilitating disease, bombings, terrorists, injury, divorce. We not only dread it, we expect it. Terror alerts, natural disasters. We all walk around shell-shocked, just waiting for bad shit happen.

My nephew was showing me his new bike this summer and the first thing I could say was, “Shouldn’t you have your helmet on?” He frowned a little because his Uncle Eric is supposed to be a little reckless. I deflated his pride. I felt like shit. I should have complimented the bike, first. But I love him and I’m conditioned to expect the worst. Aren’t we all? We send our kids into the streets in full body armor. I never wore a helmet. I know I should have but I endured countless flips over the handle bars, balls racked on the crossbar, skinned elbows and knees.

Will the footage of Steve Irwin and the stingray leak onto the internet?

I think if Jesus Christ had been born in this era, believers would insist on documenting every moment of His life. Shaky-cam, gritty, underexposed video of the infant Jesus in the manger. Multi-media coverage of all of His miracles (with expert commentary and slo-mo analysis). And the Stations of the Cross would get a hyper-realism, Scorsese treatment. Or worshipers would be praying in front of a Zapruder film loop of the Crucifixion. And at the end of the day, what footage would be the most popular? Would we want to see the miracles or the Crucifixion? Be honest.

It’s all too much. We don’t live anymore we just watch other people live. And die. And get hurt. And take risks. The sensual rush of experience is gone.

Someone will make money off that Irwin footage. That’s unethical, but inevitable…

I picture Steve Irwin getting up in the morning like a child does – with wonder, amazement and expectation of new experiences and fun. Whatever happened to fun? If you talk about having “fun” these days, everyone thinks you’re a pussy. I like to think that Steve Irwin wore his khaki clothes to bed and leaped out of it in the morning and yelled, “Crikey! Isn’t she a beauty!” Steve Irwin’s legacy is simple – childlike celebration of the mystery and joy of just living. Something that we have sadly lost. And he filmed it all so that we don’t have to leave a chair and can watch a second-generation, sensually stripped, digital reproduction of his experiences.

This is where I should quote some pithy aphorism like, “Live each day as if it were your last.” But I’m too cool for that feel-good, Hallmark card, bumper sticker philosophy. Or that moronic common sense packaged in self-help books. Let’s just say, “Hey, get off your ass and go out and live.” Experience is richer than those that flicker on your computer screen or sprawl across a 58 inch plasma screen.

Click here to view footage of Steve Irwin’s death: www.irwinstingray.com

No. I won’t.

It’s 3 AM… Is This A Blog?

I was asked to write a “blog” for The Almost Guys website. I’m going to be honest. I’m not crazy about the idea. I don’t read blogs. It’s probably the name that initially put me off the whole trend. Blog is a horrible name. Is it short for something? I don’t know and I’m not really interested enough to find out. I’m also very traditional about the written word. I know it’s old-fashioned but words should be on pages that have a smell. And you should be able to put a coffee cup on top of people’s ideas. They seem to carry more weight that way.

A “blog,” as I see it, is a journal. Right? Honestly, I’m not against writing journals or diaries… if, you know, you’re a thirteen year-old girl. When I was a kid, Journals were “Private Journals” and Diaries were kept locked. I remember how junior high school girls squealed and clutched those cloth-covered books to their chests if you ever found yourself lucky enough to be inside their rooms and threatened to take their journals and read from the multi-colored inked pages.

So, blogging is basically writing a journal and posting it on the world wide web for everyone. That includes 1.3 billion Chinese (if they can translate your precious musings) and over a billion in India (many speak English, or something that sounds vaguely like English when I call my credit card company and ask them to waive my late fee). Why does everything have to be so public? Reality shows and thousands of hours of video-taped lives. I can’t stand to watch one more TV show with families submitting home videos of their kids hitting their father in the nuts in an infinite variety of ball-racking scenarios. Everything private is now on display for public consumption. Those guys who do the Jackass show on MTV even take shits in public. And worse, I laughed. I laughed pretty hard, actually.

The first question that comes to mind as I write this blog is, “Who gives a shit?” What kind of jackass really thinks that what he has to say is so fucking riveting that insomniacs will stumble upon it and read until the sun comes up? What do you write about? Funny stories? Hi-brow for the intelligentsia (whoever they are)? Low-brow for the groundlings? When I was nineteen I had an attack of food poisoning and got explosive diarrhea on a Greyhound bus traveling to Boston. Is that a topic for a blog? It was funny and disgusting. They probably had to de-commission the bus after I was through with it. And the final insult was that the beautiful girl seated next to me got up to use the bathroom after I was finished. She walked down the aisle, opened the door, quickly slammed it shut and came back to the seat next to me. Is that the kind of stuff people like to read? I could write about standing in line for the Tower of Terror ride at Disneyland next to the world’s most intolerant, bigoted transvestite. She/he kept referring to a group of minorities as “a bunch of freaks.” And then she/he was angry with another group of kids who were “rowdy weirdos.” He was six foot three and wore a dress with a delicate floral pattern. How about a little tolerance, fella’… or, lady? Is that a blog topic? How about battling depression? Existential despair?

Hollywood. Working in Hollywood. That’s the kind of stuff I’m expected to write about, here. Honestly, though, it’s a horrible business and it’s painful to talk about it. Okay, here’s a couple quick examples…

I’m developing a television show right now. The notes I received on my last draft of the pilot were, “It’s too smart.” So, now what? Make it stupid? Does America really demand stupid programming?I took an old college friend to a celebrity party in the Hollywood Hills and we got drunk and mooned an ex-member of The Monkees. Fortunately, the mooned Monkee was pretty hammered as well. I’m not proud of that. But does it make for good blogging? Probably. A week later I was having dinner at an old Hollywood haunt with Michael Keaton (shameless name-dropping that we love so much in this business) and Michael says, “Don’t turn around now, but there’s a Monkee behind you.” I turn around immediately and see the same Monkee that I mooned the week before. I didn’t see recollection register on his face, but I kept my ass hidden. I’ve since learned how to behave at parties with celebrities and the lesson here is: watch who you show your ass to, Hollywood is a small town.I once delivered a pitch over a speaker phone in a conference room to a studio executive who was getting his tires replaced at a garage and I had to keep shouting over the pneumatic tool that tightens the lug nuts.I turned down directing the teen comedy, American Pie. Probably not the best decision of my career and the kind of thing that may send the weaker ones off the roof, but the draft that Universal sent me was titled, “East Grand Rapids High.” It’s really all in the name, isn’t it? If it had been called “American Pie” at the time, I would have jumped at it. Heartbreak. Near-misses. Soul-crushing disappointment. That’s Hollywood.We all want to show-off. Don’t we? That’s what blogging really comes down to. We’re obsessed with media attention and we all want to experience the ephemeral joy of having the klieg lights sweep over us – if even for just a moment – to be lit up like a satellite for everyone to see. It’s something we can cling to through the dark, 3am moments of existential despair. Or maybe it’s just cool to see our names and pictures somewhere. We are all convinced that we’re a click away from being discovered. You don’t have to come out to Hollywood and hang out in diners like the starlets of old. You can just sit in your boxers, eating and farting in an uncomfortable chair and publish your own videos and blogs on a laptop. “Hey, look at me. I’ve got a blog. I don’t have shit to say, but I’m writing stuff anyway. I’m gonna’ put my limited vocabulary and the rudimentary arithmetic of my own reason on display for the whole world to pick through. And here’s a bad digital picture of me, too.”So, I’ll give the blog a try. Just forgive me if it isn’t spectacular or inspired. Don’t give me notes. I get enough notes and criticism from development executives. If you think it sucks… well… with over a billion people in India, there’s gotta’ be somebody in, let’s say Punjab, who might find it mildly interesting at 3am, India Standard Time.

- Eric Fleming