A snippet from my late childhood, which is my early adulthood depending to whom you speak. I anticipate a chuckle or two so make sure your dental work is well fastened.
Names and places have been changed to protect the people who will surely receive foot to ass therapy and mild public embarrassment from the following. I am me, occasionally called myself, or Mr. Super-Handsome, my accomplice will be known simply as Ernie.
The setting: The nightclub district of my University town. Semi seedy, semi student ghetto, semi ghetto ghetto, but all ghetto fa-bu-lous.
The stage: Late evening, soon after bar closing and boozer banishment. That twilight hour when men are men and women are on the defensive. The late night air has fallen in a time of year far too cold for the stylishly showy clothes worn by young men and women who exhibit feats of ludicrous bravery fueled by and influenced by their favorite liquid might.
At the bars, in our early twenties, on the occasions when our friends had decided their time was better spent on homework, prayer and knitting, Ernie and I operated as a dynamic duo par bar excellence.
We weren’t so much that hero and sidekick type of partnership, Batman and Robin, beefcake and wingman, we were more like Simon and Garfunkel, an even exercise in harmony with strengths and domains for each. If you need to talk guitar you go to Simon, if you require information on bouffant hair you talk to Garfunkel. I’m not going to venture the answer as to whom was who, though I took the turkey in the hair category, but suffice to say, we each had our strengths in the strategically lit nightclub milieu.
For instance, Ernie was the pitchman. More valuable than perhaps any other social grace, including grace itself, is the courage or the blind ignorance it takes to walk up to strange women and ask to be, on one level or another, instantly and unforgivingly evaluated. He was the confidence man, sending in the pitch to be struck, evasively bunted, or callously fouled out. So long as they swung, the con man had done his job well.
Myself, I always preferred the more carefully achieved mysterious-guy soft-sell. That basically consists of trying to allure your intended victim through non-verbal communication and hints of longing. It is about as effective as the pitcher holding the ball in the air, waiting for the batter to come to the mound and swing, and basically amounts to a young man who gets little action.
My own forte, after the first stage was taken care of, was in the delivery. Once Ernie had the hook in and a ball in play, I was great at that endearing small talk and semi-witty banter. I could convince our prey that they were talking to thoughtful and sensitive, albeit slightly goofy wolves in sheep masks.
In all modesty, when the situation dictated I also had my moments on the dance floor.
Our record on the scene was something to behold, and if there were an award for best duo or group in a nightclub-prowling role, well, frankly we’d be sweeping the popcorn of the floor of the award show theater.
No, this is a story of a different kind of conquest. It’s about the things you don’t expect to find and how in the face of those things you think you wanted you find out more about yourself, and how you tend to be a far larger coward than you ever thought possible.
On this particular evening, Ernie and I were on our way home, astounded that yet again we had come up lame in the tiger-trapping department. We were crossing a street on the way to my apartment that bordered the edge of the red-light prostitute district, on the edge of the nightclub district, bordering the student ghetto, not too far off the state of enlightenment but just beyond thunderdome. As we both rejoined the sidewalk, a young lady passed us in the opposing direction. The stink of the hunt was still on us, our toxic strength had yet to dissipate completely. We were still in that place, with crosshairs and beer goggles taped over our eyes. I could feel the smile rise on Ernie’s face as he slipped into his role.
At a half step passed us, what passed for a barely audible pitch escaped his lips like a nervous bidder at a cattle auction.
“You’re going the wrong way, you should be coming with us.”
I barely had the chance to let out a tiny snicker before the girl swung herself around. In that split second I was expecting an entirely warranted feminist retort to be lashed into my partner’s Cheshire face, as I’m sure he was expecting it to, having built up an admirable immunity to them, but strangely she didn’t say anything. Without missing a beat or saying a word she had in fact spun around and begun following us. She was following us to my house… from a ten-word pitch? Ernie, my new favorite genius, had apparently stumbled upon the hallowed password, or perhaps had unknowingly mastered hypnosis, or… wait a second…
Holy sh… she’s a hooker! Ernie you… you’ve just hired a hooker and are taking her to my house!
At twenty years old I was already a fairly worldly young man. I had seen a great deal and had seen a great more things done. I was mature enough… Okay, mature is the wrong word… I knew enough about prostitution to know that Julia Roberts was maybe not the most accurate ambassador for the trade, and that my bed linens were about to earn a significant grudge against me.
In terms of my own prowess and sexual seasoning, I had been in the game enough times to feel knowledgeable, even capable as a performer, but in no way was I ready to perform at the professional level. Ernie on the other hand, was ready to be drafted to the big leagues.
How can I put this without being disrespectful? I can’t, so here comes a lack of respect. You know how the double standard exists in which a woman who has a lot of sex is called a slut while a man is called, manly? Let me just say that in his younger years, my boy Ernie took a stab at leveling that standard for the sluts of both genders. Though the quality may have been occasionally suspect, he achieved a quantity by which all others were judged. Ladies and gentlemen, beyond slut and stud Ernie proudly stood. Ernie was a slud, and frankly a respectable one. Had he kept up with the level of production he set ten years ago, he would have now visited the inside of more women than Tampax and the XX chromosome.
Needless to say at this point, but Ernie’s disposition at the non-verbal knowledge of our new companion of the night could have been described as… optimistic.
“What are we gonna do? She’s still following us.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Think of what? My building is right ahead.”
“Well, how about a group rate?”
Ernie, God bless him, was the kind of individual that at times had trouble recognizing the subjective nature of individual likes and dislikes. In retrospect, it may have been hard for him to imagine that though I like entertaining ‘the ladies’, I would be apprehensive of this lady for hire’s naked rental parts on my bed, or frankly within a flea’s jumping distance of it. It’s funny how a heart can be in the right place even when it’s got the directions totally wrong. He really believed he was about to do me a favor.
As we reached the lobby doors of my apartment building, I was subtly jumping out of my skin. Ernie had a look on his face like a charming super-villain on Christmas morning.
“You’ve got to get rid of her! She can’t come upstairs! My roommate’ll kill me! She’ll do something funky to my sheets… she’ll do something funky to me… her pimp will know where I live… It’s against the law! Get rid of her! Make her go! Make her go!” The under my breath ravings must have sounded like Yosemite Sam’s incoherent swear streams at Bugs Bunny.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He sounded like a Mafia hitman moonlighting as a used car salesman. I went up ahead to prepare, well really to pray.
I must have hit the elevator button seven times in the four-story ride. I bounded through my apartment to my roommate’s bedroom, even today I’m not sure if I was providing a warning or seeking advice.
Another incoherent stream bust forth.
“Man, I don’t know… Ernie… hooker… group rate… I don’t know. They’re coming, I can’t stop it…”
Calmer than I had ever seen him, my normally high-strung roommate slowly woke and turned over. Without a question or a heightened tone he told me to back out of his room and close his door. I obediently did so, I guess I was highly suggestive at that time.
As I came back out into the living room, Ernie was entering through the front door. My heart stopped as I prepared myself for HER to follow, bringing all of the Pandora’s Box kind of consequences that that questionable boxes seem to hold. Oh man, oh man, I was actually thinking of something charming to say, like in a twisted version of our barroom duo routine.
“Hi, I’m Patrick, but you can call me John.” Oh boy, this was going to suck.
As blood flow quickly returned to my brain I realized that Ernie was alone. His head hung a little bit lower than usual, especially for this point of the evening, and he was massaging his jaw the way guys in the movies do when they get socked in the mouth. He was alone, thank God, he was alone.
Oh man, what did he do now, order some kind of orgy combo deal?
“No, she hit me.”
“’You’re going the wrong way,’ you get away with, what could you have possibly said to get hit?”
As it turns out, it wasn’t so much what Ernie said that killed the mood and broke the deal. Well actually, it was exactly what he said.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘Can we get a deal for the two of us?’”
I can picture it to this day, even though I was never actually there to see it, the words being delivered from his confident grin. I can see her sultry bedroom eyes rising slightly at the realization of what he’s proposing.
“What do you mean, a deal?”
“You know, how much will it cost?”
That was about when she cranked him in the chin.
As it turns out, she was not a professional, apparently just open to suggestion.
As we both learned, girls can be offended by sleazy propositions even if they’re not offended by sleazy propositions. Far less important to a woman than what is proposed to her is what is supposed about her. The sleazy parts are imposed later.
It should be mentioned in epilogue that while I’ve merely grown older, Ernie has grown up. He is a hero everyday to his daughter, to his wife, and to the people he protects who probably rarely say ‘thank you’ and couldn’t say it enough.
The amoral of the story as close as I can figure: Be careful what you wish for…
You just might get some.
Keep it real, Ernie.
Hughes.
The Bee Gees Lied
As social animals we herd in very strange fashion on hallowed ceremonial floors. As genders we each have our own peculiarities that emerge as we mingle and promote ourselves. Though the lengths women can tend to go in this self-promotion can be vexing, I believe the guys out there trying to entice and attract while they squirm and shudder have the ladies beat. When The Bee Gees sang “You Should Be Dancing” I don’t think they had any male Night Fever in mind. You DON’T know how to do it.
Have you ever really watched men dance? It’s kind of hypnotizing, like a car wreck that keeps happening with an attempt at rhythmic repetition, and looks about as natural as if the cars were battleships or pickle jars. There are about as many heterosexual men capable of dancing, as there are White Christmases in Vancouver and doctors with good penmanship. The saddest and baddest thing to behold, as they flail and kick, and thrust their thumbs and elbows about randomly, is that they’ve convinced themselves of the impossible. They’ve somehow overtaken both instinct and reason, and ventured into a realm they should dare not tread. In their blindly ambitious attempt to trot with the foxes they’ve convinced themselves that they have a strut worthy of glorious plumage and that they have moves that can entice and enrapture. The truth about this ritual is that guys tend not to attract the ladies with their dancing but more often in spite of it.
Men dance for the very reason they dress, exercise, study, toil, demonstrate, feed, flee, fight, and 4nicate; to pursue. There’s always a very simple and primal goal, and rarely an interest in the experience itself. If there’s no hunt, there’s usually no interest. It is that splice of focus, between posture and pounce, wherein guys find their heavy feet. Men appreciate the destination not the journey, the food and not the cooking, the sex and not the foreplay… or the post-destination cuddling. Simplicity can be a virtue but men are single-minded to a fault. For the purposes of this essay and consistent joke-making let’s assume, unless otherwise stated, the ‘men’ I’m referring to are hetero-dance-incapable. I’ll get to you other jokers later.
Women seem to have an inherent ability to dance well. Some are certainly better than others, but very few lack the basic skills. Anthropologically it makes sense; girls are essentially designed to dance. Much of their lives are spent dancing; on the dance floor, walking down the street, in the supermarket, walking down the office hallway, they are dancing all the time, regardless of who it is for or what the end is to their means. By dancing of course I mean presenting, and in the wild it is the woman’s part of the primal courtship to present and it is the guy’s job, or whomever the recipient of the presentation might be, to pursue.
PC Notice: Girls, please do not be offended by the above. It is not my intention to objectify your equal partnership in modern society or your virtues during your immaculate interpretation of the rhythm… as it gets you.
As men misguidedly find their identities amidst the beat, the boom, and the babes, one of three distinct types of male dancers, or mancers emerges. The first type of mancer is The Mancer out of Water. This poor soul knows he doesn’t belong but tries to dance to be accepted in the herd or to a perspective mate as his means to his end. By ‘an end’ let me be clear that only one thing can generally force this first mancer on to the dreaded floor; the possibility of sex. This mancer is a fish, and the dance floor is sadly the sandy shore. A part of me always suspects that unsympathetic girls enjoy watching this fish flop around. The Mancer out of Water is the most forgivable because frankly as a gender men do far worse in their quest for the end he seeks. He tends to be the one that eventually sees a distant mirror and then inevitably the error of his ways.
The second mancer is The Mechanical Automaton. This tends to be the most docile of these creatures, as he believes he is in his element, content that he is succeeding in his pursuit, and therefore least likely to do something hazardous like a cornered animal, which the earlier mancer has been known to become in extreme bar-closing-hour situations. At some point on this man’s travels through life someone has imparted to him that his one dance move works. It works for any song and any given forum, this dance is all he’ll ever need and he staunchly subscribes to its effectiveness. This mancer’s dance is more or less harmless, nothing innovative or offensive; it’s simply a couple of shimmies to the left, then two to the right, and repeat. We’ve all seen this guy swaying around mindlessly. The feet move slightly within a tiny radius but sometimes not at all. His arms sway back and forth like he is landing a small plane or holding a bull-fighting cape. We’ve all wondered at what point in the eighties he learned that move, and how it has worked for him in the years since Solid Gold has left the air. We watch him fall out of beat momentarily, stumble helplessly, and find his version of the beat again. Occasionally we see him try a new combination, kick his feet out a new way, and see a feeling of accomplishment as he returns to his pendulum. The main point that distinguishes this beast from the previous is that he wants to be out there and his presence, no matter how painful or ridiculous, encourages more misguided mancers to try their luck. The majority of mancers are found in this group, and frankly it’s the safest. One, two… one, two… feet together, feet apart… keep the two beats going boys!
The final category of mancer is the deadliest. This is the foolish breed of man that thinks he’s got the dance floor conquered. He is known simply as Lord of the Mance. His moves and his gestures have a width and breadth that matches his ego. He spins, prances and cavorts with no regard for those around him or the standing of his gender as a whole. This reject from the Chippendale’s training program has convinced himself that not only can he survive where most men dare not tread, tango, and shuffle, but that he enriches the experience for the unfortunate soul targeted as his prey. It’s not his moves or sway that is necessarily distinctive, but his bravado. He truly believes he’s got it figured out, and can at times achieve success with the prey that responds to that form of brazen machismo, but does something damaging to the vessels of music and dance every time he puts foot to floor, cheek to cheek, crotch to crotch, and grind to the grindstone.
On the other side of the coin, which is an ironically appropriate introduction for the following, we have the gay sector male dancing population. Gay men can dance, at least at a far more notable percentage than the other side of the gender, and I have my suspicions as to why. Take away all the traditional homosexual notions of femininity, gracefulness, and fashion sense and you’re left with a far different presentation-pursuit dynamic. There’s mystery and fear as they prepare to pounce and persuade, but it is not the kind of unknown confronting ‘XY’ in the face of ‘XX’, with the intention of XXX. Though there is presentation and prey in this dynamic, ones understanding of the other changes the movement of the ritual from something that resembles intimidation and punishment to more of a partnership. After all, it’s understandably easier to tango as two that change in the same locker room and coordinate as well as appreciate the others dancing shoes.
There have been approximately five men in the history of the gender that could and should, as the Bee Gees said, have been dancing. Two of them are Michael Jackson, one is that Michael Flatly guy, and the rest are subject of myth and speculation. I realize I am expected to include such notables as Estaire, Travolta, and Swayze, but being that their boogey occurred in Movieland I’m inclined to disregard them for fear of contamination from possible computer and editing enhancement. Frankly, that lifting the girl over the head thing at the end of Dirty Dancing always seemed a little bit fishy to me. Furthermore, Jackson and Flatly are hardly two Michaels that we should be setting as role models. I realize also that some will find it notable that I’ve overlooked the nomination of stage dancers and Swan Lakers that deserve a mention. I do believe that ballet dancers and stage performers of all genres have achieved something admirable but they are doing so in a highly disciplined and choreographed performance and therefore not truly getting down. We must consider what has driven these stage mancers into the careers they have chosen. If they have the same gray in their skulls and red in their veins they are doing what they do to perform for and attract the women before them and therefore are back down at the same level of motivation as the rest of us. I move that we dismiss the notion of any precedent set of admirable male dancing and move on to the cathartic pleasure of putting this thumb-jiving, Macarena-madness behind us.
For every law there is a loophole, for every rule there is an exception, and out there somewhere are men who can be excused for giving dance a chance. In its purest form dance is an honest physical expression. When it manifests itself outside of a nightclub, far from the influence of the pursuit, the alcohol, and a top-forty-techno musical bludgeoning, it can be quite a beautiful, spontaneous thing. There are also times when it can be a rite of monumental significance and splendor. No one in any way, even through the persuasion of my inspired ranting, should ever stop a child from dancing. A child taking advantage of his or her inalienable right to let loose and be ridiculous is feeding a natural human energy that keeps our collective spirit breathing. Any movement built on joy and free of pretense is beyond valuable. By the same token, how can a measurable value ever be attributed to the way an indigenous community welcomes an adolescent into adulthood or the way a father says goodbye to his daughter on her wedding day. Dancing is a gift given to a human race capable of creativity and boundless expression. I have no problem with this gift when it is used as it was intended. I have an issue with this gift when it pokes away at the air around it, wears too much cologne, and offends four or five other gifts in its expression… this leads to euphemism and far too infrequently, euthanasia. If everyone comes to understand that dancing is intended to be a celebration and not a sales pitch, dance floors can again become the terrain of those capable of cutting a rug and not those who deserve to have that rug pulled out from under their two left feet.
I don’t intend for all of the blame for this evolving devolution of the male gender to rest totally on the shoulders of the Brothers Gibb and their colleagues. Musical expression is one of humanity’s finest pursuits, and certainly they can’t be blamed for the way innocent musings such as “You should be dancing” and their many successors have been received. All the Jive Talking aside, as men we have to accept our weaknesses while we revel in our strengths, and while we can’t dance we can all take comfort in the knowledge that we will always be better at killing spiders and barbeque.
One, two… one, two… no time to talk.
Patrick Hughes
Have you ever really watched men dance? It’s kind of hypnotizing, like a car wreck that keeps happening with an attempt at rhythmic repetition, and looks about as natural as if the cars were battleships or pickle jars. There are about as many heterosexual men capable of dancing, as there are White Christmases in Vancouver and doctors with good penmanship. The saddest and baddest thing to behold, as they flail and kick, and thrust their thumbs and elbows about randomly, is that they’ve convinced themselves of the impossible. They’ve somehow overtaken both instinct and reason, and ventured into a realm they should dare not tread. In their blindly ambitious attempt to trot with the foxes they’ve convinced themselves that they have a strut worthy of glorious plumage and that they have moves that can entice and enrapture. The truth about this ritual is that guys tend not to attract the ladies with their dancing but more often in spite of it.
Men dance for the very reason they dress, exercise, study, toil, demonstrate, feed, flee, fight, and 4nicate; to pursue. There’s always a very simple and primal goal, and rarely an interest in the experience itself. If there’s no hunt, there’s usually no interest. It is that splice of focus, between posture and pounce, wherein guys find their heavy feet. Men appreciate the destination not the journey, the food and not the cooking, the sex and not the foreplay… or the post-destination cuddling. Simplicity can be a virtue but men are single-minded to a fault. For the purposes of this essay and consistent joke-making let’s assume, unless otherwise stated, the ‘men’ I’m referring to are hetero-dance-incapable. I’ll get to you other jokers later.
Women seem to have an inherent ability to dance well. Some are certainly better than others, but very few lack the basic skills. Anthropologically it makes sense; girls are essentially designed to dance. Much of their lives are spent dancing; on the dance floor, walking down the street, in the supermarket, walking down the office hallway, they are dancing all the time, regardless of who it is for or what the end is to their means. By dancing of course I mean presenting, and in the wild it is the woman’s part of the primal courtship to present and it is the guy’s job, or whomever the recipient of the presentation might be, to pursue.
PC Notice: Girls, please do not be offended by the above. It is not my intention to objectify your equal partnership in modern society or your virtues during your immaculate interpretation of the rhythm… as it gets you.
As men misguidedly find their identities amidst the beat, the boom, and the babes, one of three distinct types of male dancers, or mancers emerges. The first type of mancer is The Mancer out of Water. This poor soul knows he doesn’t belong but tries to dance to be accepted in the herd or to a perspective mate as his means to his end. By ‘an end’ let me be clear that only one thing can generally force this first mancer on to the dreaded floor; the possibility of sex. This mancer is a fish, and the dance floor is sadly the sandy shore. A part of me always suspects that unsympathetic girls enjoy watching this fish flop around. The Mancer out of Water is the most forgivable because frankly as a gender men do far worse in their quest for the end he seeks. He tends to be the one that eventually sees a distant mirror and then inevitably the error of his ways.
The second mancer is The Mechanical Automaton. This tends to be the most docile of these creatures, as he believes he is in his element, content that he is succeeding in his pursuit, and therefore least likely to do something hazardous like a cornered animal, which the earlier mancer has been known to become in extreme bar-closing-hour situations. At some point on this man’s travels through life someone has imparted to him that his one dance move works. It works for any song and any given forum, this dance is all he’ll ever need and he staunchly subscribes to its effectiveness. This mancer’s dance is more or less harmless, nothing innovative or offensive; it’s simply a couple of shimmies to the left, then two to the right, and repeat. We’ve all seen this guy swaying around mindlessly. The feet move slightly within a tiny radius but sometimes not at all. His arms sway back and forth like he is landing a small plane or holding a bull-fighting cape. We’ve all wondered at what point in the eighties he learned that move, and how it has worked for him in the years since Solid Gold has left the air. We watch him fall out of beat momentarily, stumble helplessly, and find his version of the beat again. Occasionally we see him try a new combination, kick his feet out a new way, and see a feeling of accomplishment as he returns to his pendulum. The main point that distinguishes this beast from the previous is that he wants to be out there and his presence, no matter how painful or ridiculous, encourages more misguided mancers to try their luck. The majority of mancers are found in this group, and frankly it’s the safest. One, two… one, two… feet together, feet apart… keep the two beats going boys!
The final category of mancer is the deadliest. This is the foolish breed of man that thinks he’s got the dance floor conquered. He is known simply as Lord of the Mance. His moves and his gestures have a width and breadth that matches his ego. He spins, prances and cavorts with no regard for those around him or the standing of his gender as a whole. This reject from the Chippendale’s training program has convinced himself that not only can he survive where most men dare not tread, tango, and shuffle, but that he enriches the experience for the unfortunate soul targeted as his prey. It’s not his moves or sway that is necessarily distinctive, but his bravado. He truly believes he’s got it figured out, and can at times achieve success with the prey that responds to that form of brazen machismo, but does something damaging to the vessels of music and dance every time he puts foot to floor, cheek to cheek, crotch to crotch, and grind to the grindstone.
On the other side of the coin, which is an ironically appropriate introduction for the following, we have the gay sector male dancing population. Gay men can dance, at least at a far more notable percentage than the other side of the gender, and I have my suspicions as to why. Take away all the traditional homosexual notions of femininity, gracefulness, and fashion sense and you’re left with a far different presentation-pursuit dynamic. There’s mystery and fear as they prepare to pounce and persuade, but it is not the kind of unknown confronting ‘XY’ in the face of ‘XX’, with the intention of XXX. Though there is presentation and prey in this dynamic, ones understanding of the other changes the movement of the ritual from something that resembles intimidation and punishment to more of a partnership. After all, it’s understandably easier to tango as two that change in the same locker room and coordinate as well as appreciate the others dancing shoes.
There have been approximately five men in the history of the gender that could and should, as the Bee Gees said, have been dancing. Two of them are Michael Jackson, one is that Michael Flatly guy, and the rest are subject of myth and speculation. I realize I am expected to include such notables as Estaire, Travolta, and Swayze, but being that their boogey occurred in Movieland I’m inclined to disregard them for fear of contamination from possible computer and editing enhancement. Frankly, that lifting the girl over the head thing at the end of Dirty Dancing always seemed a little bit fishy to me. Furthermore, Jackson and Flatly are hardly two Michaels that we should be setting as role models. I realize also that some will find it notable that I’ve overlooked the nomination of stage dancers and Swan Lakers that deserve a mention. I do believe that ballet dancers and stage performers of all genres have achieved something admirable but they are doing so in a highly disciplined and choreographed performance and therefore not truly getting down. We must consider what has driven these stage mancers into the careers they have chosen. If they have the same gray in their skulls and red in their veins they are doing what they do to perform for and attract the women before them and therefore are back down at the same level of motivation as the rest of us. I move that we dismiss the notion of any precedent set of admirable male dancing and move on to the cathartic pleasure of putting this thumb-jiving, Macarena-madness behind us.
For every law there is a loophole, for every rule there is an exception, and out there somewhere are men who can be excused for giving dance a chance. In its purest form dance is an honest physical expression. When it manifests itself outside of a nightclub, far from the influence of the pursuit, the alcohol, and a top-forty-techno musical bludgeoning, it can be quite a beautiful, spontaneous thing. There are also times when it can be a rite of monumental significance and splendor. No one in any way, even through the persuasion of my inspired ranting, should ever stop a child from dancing. A child taking advantage of his or her inalienable right to let loose and be ridiculous is feeding a natural human energy that keeps our collective spirit breathing. Any movement built on joy and free of pretense is beyond valuable. By the same token, how can a measurable value ever be attributed to the way an indigenous community welcomes an adolescent into adulthood or the way a father says goodbye to his daughter on her wedding day. Dancing is a gift given to a human race capable of creativity and boundless expression. I have no problem with this gift when it is used as it was intended. I have an issue with this gift when it pokes away at the air around it, wears too much cologne, and offends four or five other gifts in its expression… this leads to euphemism and far too infrequently, euthanasia. If everyone comes to understand that dancing is intended to be a celebration and not a sales pitch, dance floors can again become the terrain of those capable of cutting a rug and not those who deserve to have that rug pulled out from under their two left feet.
I don’t intend for all of the blame for this evolving devolution of the male gender to rest totally on the shoulders of the Brothers Gibb and their colleagues. Musical expression is one of humanity’s finest pursuits, and certainly they can’t be blamed for the way innocent musings such as “You should be dancing” and their many successors have been received. All the Jive Talking aside, as men we have to accept our weaknesses while we revel in our strengths, and while we can’t dance we can all take comfort in the knowledge that we will always be better at killing spiders and barbeque.
One, two… one, two… no time to talk.
Patrick Hughes
Trust Never Sleeps
Who do you trust?
One of the best pieces of advice my dad ever supplied me with was: If you want someone to trust you, don’t ask for their trust. I am paraphrasing here, as I believe the original tidbit had something to do with getting girls, but as always with my dad, the logic is sound.
Trust is quite a commodity. Trust is in fact such a rare form of currency today that people tend to be disbelieving when it’s offered as trade. Imagine asking someone who isn’t related to you through blood, legal union, or years of familiarity to ‘trust you’. Asking for someone’s trust in a personal or in a, heaven-forbid, business transaction, and receiving a positive response is about as likely as getting a Grande-vanilla-no fat-extra hot-soy latte-with half non-dairy foam, chocolate syrup and a twist of cinnamon-in a Venti cup, holding the disgruntled loogie, and paying for the morning concoction in the US with Canadian money.
Trust me, it’s a hard one to negotiate. I still have a choco-soy blotch on my jacket and a stain on my permanent Starbucks record. Soy stains are forever.
We’ve long ago replaced trust. It’s gone the way of the dodo, of sympathy and accountability, of good TV and clever Hallmark Cards. It’s been replaced by contracts, prenuptial agreements, locks for our locks, security systems for our homes, cars, computers, phones, bikes, internal organs, and intellectual property.
I don’t even trust you… and I happen to like you.
The trust of our day is an internal principle, like honor. You don’t expect anyone to abide by an outdated code of ethics that seems about as relevant as an honest politician, and frankly, you’d be freaked out if they did. Why should you spend your hard earn trust-dollars on faith when you can invest yourself in a safe low-yield mutual mistrust fund? As a default, we have all learned to expect a knife held behind back of a new acquaintance in the hand that isn’t shaking ours, which is intended for our own backs when our guard is dropped. We no longer ask: who do you trust? The more appropriate question is: who not to trust first?
For your pleasure and enlightenment, I’ve listed a few examples below of those you’re best not to turn your back on. I’ll make this plain; these wolves in fluffy white clothing are just waiting for their chance to pounce. You’re in the crosshairs; don’t let them out of your sight.
JELL-O
I have always had a suspicious eye on this stuff.
From the very moment this quasi-food was first placed in front of me as a child, I knew it was not to be trusted. I can remember that undulating mound of unnatural green, in the shape of the bowl mom used for salad, being placed on the table in front of me. The eyes of my family members were mesmerized as its gelatinous form danced about without really moving. It was frightening, they wanted to ingest this substance, they looked me like pod people waiting for me to match their hypnotic enthusiasm. This was the thing that people ran away from in horror movies! Within its dome-like shape I could see morsels of apple and grape frozen in time like little fruit hostages, like Han Solo at the end of Empire Strikes Back. I nearly lost control as it seemed to avoid my spoon, moving a little in defense as I probed its surface. At that point, I knew it was the Jell-O or me.
Before I even understood the notion of trust, I think knew that ‘enigmatic’ was not an attribute we should attach to our food. Food should fall apart, consist of a vegetable or grain at some level… and be something more than a hostage taker. Food should not be translucent, or be able to evade capture.
I’m not suggesting some kind of a boycott here, the last thing we need to do is let this stuff know we’re on to it. Just be cool, rescue a piece of fruit every now and then, let it coyly wriggle about in front of you, but don’t let it know you’re on to it. This ‘dessert’ could turn on us at any time, after all, it already got Bill Cosby.
ADVOCATES OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS
There is a potential list, as long as the naughty side of Santa’s own list, of theories that make great sense on paper but suck the fun out of a clown’s butt when put into practice. I dare not get started on that list here, in the middle of another list, but a definite nominee would have to be the practice of Political Correctness. The only thing worse: the close-minded, misguided fops that champion it.
This is not to say that I am against the message. We must be sensitive to the ethnicities of others, the genders, the nationalities, the orientations, the feelings, the origins, the brands, and the mid-level management administrational-not secretarial- appointment… I hope we can all see where this censored labeling takes us. I think we need a world with less walls and far less ‘correctness’ around us.
Do we really think Martin Luther King cared, aside from obvious atrocious examples, what he was called? Was his or his compatriots’ message merely about a label? Respect and equality is about far more than words, it’s about voices. I truly believe he would be against something that strives to keep labels attached and categories in place. I think labels are the very things he fought.
What we have in a Politically Correct Culture is more fear and more division. From a fear of words we naturally spread to a fear of actions and scenarios, and “oh, will this non-specific, gender-oriented… be offensive to non-traditional, Afro-, I mean African… what are we calling that now… I’ve forgotten who we’re offending.”
I have no problem with any one at any time, for any dumbass or perfectly logical reason, expressing a personal issue of offense with something they’re seeing or hearing or tasting or being touched by, so long as they understand that they must then take steps to accommodate THEMSELVES. The moment you raise the issue of political correctness, and you’re not answering a trivia question in the category of international diplomacy, you are attempting to censor someone and take something from someone else. Pre-emptive offense defends no one, and therefore you cannot be trusted.
Personally, you weren’t fooling me for a minute.
PEOPLE WHO WALK THEIR CATS
There are two kinds of people in the world: Dog-lovers and Cat-slaves. We’ve all been foolish to allow the latter, whose allegiances lie with their feline overlords and not with us, to roam free and occasionally bring their cats with them.
In all seriousness, few things are as unnatural looking to me, and I’m sure to most of you, than a cat on a leash. You know those leash/harnesses some parents use with their toddlers who are old enough to walk and young enough to wander? To me, the image of a cat on a rope is like that toddler harness on a bewildered thirteen year old. I tend not to trust the judgment of people who don’t know they’re demeaning themselves.
I don’t know how cats do it, but they manage an inter-species expression of sarcastic disapproval that for some reason these owners can’t decipher. In forgetting their place of servitude, these cat-slaves embarrass themselves, the dog-walkers around them, and most importantly, their owners at the other end of the rope.
The motherships are coming for these people, don’t turn your back on them.
CATS WHO LET THEIR OWNERS WALK THEM
Who is really on the END of that leash?
Need I say more?
BLACKBERRY USERS
I used to save this particular province of mistrust in my big black heart for cellular phone users, these vagabond gypsies that couldn’t commit to a location and boldly crossed over the landline. Since becoming a rather avid cell phone user myself, I have seen the light and thus shifted this distain to these holster wearing, e-mailing, Windows-compatible, fruit-named device-loving desperados.
A few of quick points (for those of you reading this on a little screen, I’m on to you.):
First of all, it’s too much power. Getting e-mail anywhere is like changing gravity.
Have you ever seen the guy in the corner of the coffee shop using one of these things? Tell me he’s not e-mailing the mothership.
What’s with the name, are they tasty? Do they make a pie? It’s clearly one of those cute, unassuming nicknames to lull us into a feeling of security. They were probably almost called Daisy petals or Puppy dogs.
Among the Blackberry inner circle they’re probably called Snakebites, or Operation: Viper.
If you see one of these operatives, try and get a look at the intelligence they’re gathering, and e-mail it to me right away… from a computer!
If you are reading this article on a Blackberry, by the way, you are hereby not trusted… Oh hell, I never trusted you to begin with.
WOMEN
I could go on for hours. If you don’t already carry pepper-spray, just start talking football when they corner you, and run like Jerry Rice when they go into the ‘sports-coma’. Otherwise, I suggest a hearty stop, drop and roll.
Absolutely, under no circumstances are they to be trusted, until they are mothers.
ROCK STARS
Since Elvis was drafted and the Beatles invaded, Rock Stars been the spiritual-political-poetic-fashion-profanity-gurus of their particular generations. Though they will forevermore have their pulpit and their devoted flock, believe me, none of them got into their business to be a leader, to have responsibility or to be trusted.
Rock Stars are the epitome of rebellion, and whether they embody this through their appearance, their actions, their words, or their entire beings, the last thing they should be asking, of the ears and souls tuned in, is trust. A good Rock Star dropped that notion long before, or perhaps the moment before, he or she picked the guitar.
The only time a Rock Star is asking for the trust of their minions these days is when they are asking them to buy something, or more to the point, buy into something. This is when the Rock Star goes from Poet-Minstrel-Entertainer to Shill. You see, in a scam, the Shill is the one that lures you into the con, who makes the game of Three Card Monte look pleasing and enjoyable, while the Swindlers turn over the card you swore you wouldn’t get.
I have a problem just about any time a Rock Star has something to say outside of the lyrics of their verse, because the cases are so few and far between that they’re not using their influence to sell you Snake Oil. I would rather hear Michael Bolton singing while he’s getting a bikini wax then hear Jennifer Lopez tell me how to smell, Nelly’s thoughts on footwear, The Dixie Chicks thoughts on war, or Bruce Springsteen tell me who to vote for. Whatever happened to rebels WITHOUT a cause?
Sing, perform, dance, objectify your body, starve yourself, hate your father, hate your mother, hate your ex, hate me, but don’t ask for my trust. Artists express, they do not campaign.
Okay… you can trust Springsteen.
WRITERS
You can trust me on this, don’t trust writers.
As artists, we are persuaders, we take the language you take for granted and make a sales pitch every time we put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, and prove time after time, that the sword is a pussy.
Other mediums of artistic expression have little room for falsehood. Sculpture, music, craftwork, and canvas are truthful expressions from the truthful parts of the soul, or frankly they don’t work… I’m reminded again of Hallmark Cards.
Writing is best when it’s a layered version of truthful. An unabashedly trustless tapestry, of a bunch of big words that paint a pretty picture.
The best readers are the ones that know not to take any words or carefully crafted statements for granted. We’re all spin-doctors, and I’ve just sold you Snake Oil.
We must be eternally vigilante. If you take anything away from this little bittle, remember to guard your trust and keep those eyes open. In the end, no one is responsible for your personal security other than yourself. So, do not come crying to me if you find yourself frozen in some Jell-O that a cat-walking female rock star sold you through an e-mail sent via a Blackberry from God only knows where.
I’ll hate to say I told you so, but happily remind you to trust me...
Trust me.
Patrick Hughes
One of the best pieces of advice my dad ever supplied me with was: If you want someone to trust you, don’t ask for their trust. I am paraphrasing here, as I believe the original tidbit had something to do with getting girls, but as always with my dad, the logic is sound.
Trust is quite a commodity. Trust is in fact such a rare form of currency today that people tend to be disbelieving when it’s offered as trade. Imagine asking someone who isn’t related to you through blood, legal union, or years of familiarity to ‘trust you’. Asking for someone’s trust in a personal or in a, heaven-forbid, business transaction, and receiving a positive response is about as likely as getting a Grande-vanilla-no fat-extra hot-soy latte-with half non-dairy foam, chocolate syrup and a twist of cinnamon-in a Venti cup, holding the disgruntled loogie, and paying for the morning concoction in the US with Canadian money.
Trust me, it’s a hard one to negotiate. I still have a choco-soy blotch on my jacket and a stain on my permanent Starbucks record. Soy stains are forever.
We’ve long ago replaced trust. It’s gone the way of the dodo, of sympathy and accountability, of good TV and clever Hallmark Cards. It’s been replaced by contracts, prenuptial agreements, locks for our locks, security systems for our homes, cars, computers, phones, bikes, internal organs, and intellectual property.
I don’t even trust you… and I happen to like you.
The trust of our day is an internal principle, like honor. You don’t expect anyone to abide by an outdated code of ethics that seems about as relevant as an honest politician, and frankly, you’d be freaked out if they did. Why should you spend your hard earn trust-dollars on faith when you can invest yourself in a safe low-yield mutual mistrust fund? As a default, we have all learned to expect a knife held behind back of a new acquaintance in the hand that isn’t shaking ours, which is intended for our own backs when our guard is dropped. We no longer ask: who do you trust? The more appropriate question is: who not to trust first?
For your pleasure and enlightenment, I’ve listed a few examples below of those you’re best not to turn your back on. I’ll make this plain; these wolves in fluffy white clothing are just waiting for their chance to pounce. You’re in the crosshairs; don’t let them out of your sight.
JELL-O
I have always had a suspicious eye on this stuff.
From the very moment this quasi-food was first placed in front of me as a child, I knew it was not to be trusted. I can remember that undulating mound of unnatural green, in the shape of the bowl mom used for salad, being placed on the table in front of me. The eyes of my family members were mesmerized as its gelatinous form danced about without really moving. It was frightening, they wanted to ingest this substance, they looked me like pod people waiting for me to match their hypnotic enthusiasm. This was the thing that people ran away from in horror movies! Within its dome-like shape I could see morsels of apple and grape frozen in time like little fruit hostages, like Han Solo at the end of Empire Strikes Back. I nearly lost control as it seemed to avoid my spoon, moving a little in defense as I probed its surface. At that point, I knew it was the Jell-O or me.
Before I even understood the notion of trust, I think knew that ‘enigmatic’ was not an attribute we should attach to our food. Food should fall apart, consist of a vegetable or grain at some level… and be something more than a hostage taker. Food should not be translucent, or be able to evade capture.
I’m not suggesting some kind of a boycott here, the last thing we need to do is let this stuff know we’re on to it. Just be cool, rescue a piece of fruit every now and then, let it coyly wriggle about in front of you, but don’t let it know you’re on to it. This ‘dessert’ could turn on us at any time, after all, it already got Bill Cosby.
ADVOCATES OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS
There is a potential list, as long as the naughty side of Santa’s own list, of theories that make great sense on paper but suck the fun out of a clown’s butt when put into practice. I dare not get started on that list here, in the middle of another list, but a definite nominee would have to be the practice of Political Correctness. The only thing worse: the close-minded, misguided fops that champion it.
This is not to say that I am against the message. We must be sensitive to the ethnicities of others, the genders, the nationalities, the orientations, the feelings, the origins, the brands, and the mid-level management administrational-not secretarial- appointment… I hope we can all see where this censored labeling takes us. I think we need a world with less walls and far less ‘correctness’ around us.
Do we really think Martin Luther King cared, aside from obvious atrocious examples, what he was called? Was his or his compatriots’ message merely about a label? Respect and equality is about far more than words, it’s about voices. I truly believe he would be against something that strives to keep labels attached and categories in place. I think labels are the very things he fought.
What we have in a Politically Correct Culture is more fear and more division. From a fear of words we naturally spread to a fear of actions and scenarios, and “oh, will this non-specific, gender-oriented… be offensive to non-traditional, Afro-, I mean African… what are we calling that now… I’ve forgotten who we’re offending.”
I have no problem with any one at any time, for any dumbass or perfectly logical reason, expressing a personal issue of offense with something they’re seeing or hearing or tasting or being touched by, so long as they understand that they must then take steps to accommodate THEMSELVES. The moment you raise the issue of political correctness, and you’re not answering a trivia question in the category of international diplomacy, you are attempting to censor someone and take something from someone else. Pre-emptive offense defends no one, and therefore you cannot be trusted.
Personally, you weren’t fooling me for a minute.
PEOPLE WHO WALK THEIR CATS
There are two kinds of people in the world: Dog-lovers and Cat-slaves. We’ve all been foolish to allow the latter, whose allegiances lie with their feline overlords and not with us, to roam free and occasionally bring their cats with them.
In all seriousness, few things are as unnatural looking to me, and I’m sure to most of you, than a cat on a leash. You know those leash/harnesses some parents use with their toddlers who are old enough to walk and young enough to wander? To me, the image of a cat on a rope is like that toddler harness on a bewildered thirteen year old. I tend not to trust the judgment of people who don’t know they’re demeaning themselves.
I don’t know how cats do it, but they manage an inter-species expression of sarcastic disapproval that for some reason these owners can’t decipher. In forgetting their place of servitude, these cat-slaves embarrass themselves, the dog-walkers around them, and most importantly, their owners at the other end of the rope.
The motherships are coming for these people, don’t turn your back on them.
CATS WHO LET THEIR OWNERS WALK THEM
Who is really on the END of that leash?
Need I say more?
BLACKBERRY USERS
I used to save this particular province of mistrust in my big black heart for cellular phone users, these vagabond gypsies that couldn’t commit to a location and boldly crossed over the landline. Since becoming a rather avid cell phone user myself, I have seen the light and thus shifted this distain to these holster wearing, e-mailing, Windows-compatible, fruit-named device-loving desperados.
A few of quick points (for those of you reading this on a little screen, I’m on to you.):
First of all, it’s too much power. Getting e-mail anywhere is like changing gravity.
Have you ever seen the guy in the corner of the coffee shop using one of these things? Tell me he’s not e-mailing the mothership.
What’s with the name, are they tasty? Do they make a pie? It’s clearly one of those cute, unassuming nicknames to lull us into a feeling of security. They were probably almost called Daisy petals or Puppy dogs.
Among the Blackberry inner circle they’re probably called Snakebites, or Operation: Viper.
If you see one of these operatives, try and get a look at the intelligence they’re gathering, and e-mail it to me right away… from a computer!
If you are reading this article on a Blackberry, by the way, you are hereby not trusted… Oh hell, I never trusted you to begin with.
WOMEN
I could go on for hours. If you don’t already carry pepper-spray, just start talking football when they corner you, and run like Jerry Rice when they go into the ‘sports-coma’. Otherwise, I suggest a hearty stop, drop and roll.
Absolutely, under no circumstances are they to be trusted, until they are mothers.
ROCK STARS
Since Elvis was drafted and the Beatles invaded, Rock Stars been the spiritual-political-poetic-fashion-profanity-gurus of their particular generations. Though they will forevermore have their pulpit and their devoted flock, believe me, none of them got into their business to be a leader, to have responsibility or to be trusted.
Rock Stars are the epitome of rebellion, and whether they embody this through their appearance, their actions, their words, or their entire beings, the last thing they should be asking, of the ears and souls tuned in, is trust. A good Rock Star dropped that notion long before, or perhaps the moment before, he or she picked the guitar.
The only time a Rock Star is asking for the trust of their minions these days is when they are asking them to buy something, or more to the point, buy into something. This is when the Rock Star goes from Poet-Minstrel-Entertainer to Shill. You see, in a scam, the Shill is the one that lures you into the con, who makes the game of Three Card Monte look pleasing and enjoyable, while the Swindlers turn over the card you swore you wouldn’t get.
I have a problem just about any time a Rock Star has something to say outside of the lyrics of their verse, because the cases are so few and far between that they’re not using their influence to sell you Snake Oil. I would rather hear Michael Bolton singing while he’s getting a bikini wax then hear Jennifer Lopez tell me how to smell, Nelly’s thoughts on footwear, The Dixie Chicks thoughts on war, or Bruce Springsteen tell me who to vote for. Whatever happened to rebels WITHOUT a cause?
Sing, perform, dance, objectify your body, starve yourself, hate your father, hate your mother, hate your ex, hate me, but don’t ask for my trust. Artists express, they do not campaign.
Okay… you can trust Springsteen.
WRITERS
You can trust me on this, don’t trust writers.
As artists, we are persuaders, we take the language you take for granted and make a sales pitch every time we put pen to paper, finger to keyboard, and prove time after time, that the sword is a pussy.
Other mediums of artistic expression have little room for falsehood. Sculpture, music, craftwork, and canvas are truthful expressions from the truthful parts of the soul, or frankly they don’t work… I’m reminded again of Hallmark Cards.
Writing is best when it’s a layered version of truthful. An unabashedly trustless tapestry, of a bunch of big words that paint a pretty picture.
The best readers are the ones that know not to take any words or carefully crafted statements for granted. We’re all spin-doctors, and I’ve just sold you Snake Oil.
We must be eternally vigilante. If you take anything away from this little bittle, remember to guard your trust and keep those eyes open. In the end, no one is responsible for your personal security other than yourself. So, do not come crying to me if you find yourself frozen in some Jell-O that a cat-walking female rock star sold you through an e-mail sent via a Blackberry from God only knows where.
I’ll hate to say I told you so, but happily remind you to trust me...
Trust me.
Patrick Hughes
The Getbackupedness Factor
Heroes, goddamit, when will they get it? The job is simple enough, save the day, trounce your opponent, provide an example for all the mere mortals to follow, and if possible, look good in colorfully accessorized spandex while doing it. We, as the adoring public, and occasionally the damsels and damsos in distress (masculine for damsel, anyone?), have done our part by outlining these standards and providing the venues for heroic acts of splendor and daring do, so why do these heroes of ours continually trip on their capes?
We love our heroes. We have a natural tendency to seek figures to revere, emulate, and merchandise. There are few things as recognized in our society as the pedestal we put our heroes and achievers atop. Remarkably, the one thing more noteworthy to us is to watch those heroes fall to the ground we the mortals share. We’re fickle in our admiration, there is no doubt, and tend to be thoughtless in our outlay of this commodity, but nonetheless the admiration always exists. The still stranger aspect of hero worship is that more than we love Hero Wreckage, and more than the image of the hero itself, there is a velvet rope, a red carpet and a standing ovation waiting for the hero that falls and rises again. There are few images as majestic as the eagle soaring, but prepare to put your hands together for the phoenix kicking some ash. Yes, I said ash.
Maybe it’s that we feel more of kinship with a hero that suffers the weakness of humanity and failure. Perhaps we give more validity to that victory because it is closer to something we ourselves could achieve. Maybe the hardship itself is something similar to an experience felt by our loved ones or ourselves. For whatever reason, heroes with that fallible human weakness, the ones that ride high, fall to earth, and make a staggering comeback are always the ones we remember, no matter how much we want to forget them.
A red cape and a bullet-bouncing chest are great, but isn’t it so that bruises, blood, and a worthy victory a true hero make?
Below is a list of heroes, otherwise known as celebrities, public figures, tabloid fodder, idols, clowns, what have you. The only thing that these tragic heroes share is unfinished business in the eyes of this particular mere mortal. None of us will lose any sleep if none of these once-heroes continue down their respective roads to anonymity, but it would be nice to see them put foot to ass. If for no other reason, to give value to our adoration and to the pedestal space they once occupied.
CHRISTOPHER REEVE
Why not start off with an actual hero?
When I was a kid, Superman was the man. He was the idol for me, and continues to occupy every memento space in that segment of my long-term memory. There was no hero, no bird, and no plane that came before or faster than a speeding bullet. My mom made for this awesome costume for me that I wore for two consecutive Halloweens and pretty much every day in between. When you’re a kid, that popular fiction idol is your god, your moon and stars. They help you feel okay about the world.
Kids of my generation grew up with a different Superman than generations before. For us, comic books and TV serials weren’t it, Christopher Reeve was it. Though some consider the role to be a shadow cast over his career, that role beams a light on my childhood as bright as our planet’s yellow sun.
I can remember a selfish disbelief in the news of my childhood hero’s severed spine. I shook my head and waited for that image of youth to be youthful again, to heroically defeat any notion of mortality. Idols, parents, and saviors, oh my, why do they ever have to show us faults and ruin everything?
In his second life Reeve became a new kind of hero, there’s no question. He earned an immortality beyond and yet somehow an interesting compliment to his celluloid legacy.
Some would argue that he did make his comeback. That he continued fighting when he could have relented, and in his legacy he’s blown a hole through a comeback, standing up to an enemy more diabolical than any comic book villain. Many would argue even that he won. These people, incidentally, are heroic in their own way.
Here’s a guy who made a huge comeback and still deserved more to come back to. He was a hero who was down, but not in the typical form of popular opinion. We all needed this guy to come back and show that a human who looked cool in a blue leotard could be a man of steel again. The little kid inside me wearing that cape and those big red boots would have relished it too.
It’s almost cliché at this point to even call attention to something so blatantly obvious, as though I’m proudly unveiling my newly invented wheel, but I don’t care if I’m preaching to a worldwide choir. He fought valiantly and has earned the stature he will eternally hold, but Christopher Reeve deserved to stand over his vanquished foe, he deserved to come back and... stand.
MICHAEL JACKSON
I wouldn’t presume to think that I’m about to say anything that hasn’t been said. But nonetheless…
Is there any greater modern tale of tragic celebrity than that of the King of Pop? I am apprehensive about his position on this list simply because I can’t fathom a nook or cranny of his public persona that hasn’t at this point been hammered into the ground under the weight of a thousand telephoto lenses.
He represents the quintessential good and bad, the height of talent and the evil incarnations of too many aspects of his industry to mention. What stands out among the many trails he’s blazed, both for those who’ve followed and where most dare not tread, are two major gospels of modern public life, accomplishment and speculation.
He is the epitome of a life of invited invasion. His face may appear in the dictionary under several notorious titles, but most are based in the speculative and alleged. What happens when you spend your entire life under a microscope? You find it very difficult to conceal the parts of you that you didn’t know you had to hide. And if you don’t name those parts yourself, someone’s going to go ahead and name them for you. He has set the bar for being judged by elements completely separate from that which he offers the world. He gives us music, we judge his appearance.
Of course, the grand tragedy of his life still unfolding is the genius that is still acknowledged and thought to be squandered. In many ways the mold he has cast will never be duplicated or improved upon. His accomplishments are every bit as well known as his controversies. He has influenced the recordings and stage shows of every single performer to follow in his genre.
He is the King of Pop, and there’s no amount of eccentricity that can take that away and make us stop paying attention. Many aspects of the King, Ex-Son In Law to another King, are as plain as the nose on his face. An easy one, I know.
Cleary eccentric, potentially troubled, obviously talented, an immortal performer, an inspired dancer, a constantly emulated artist.
A self-loathing man-child with too many resources for his own well-being? Perhaps.
A man fixated too much on recapturing his stolen childhood? Quite possibly.
A pedophile? Unproven.
Innocent until proven guilty? Not on your life.
A hero to many and due for a serious comeback? Absolutely.
He could change things. There has been very few if any public figures whose life has been dissected to the lengths that his has. Granted, there have been very few lives presented as fantastically theatrically absurd. If he could turn it all around, he could set another standard for all that follow him.
Imagine acknowledging and appreciating a popular artist for their artistic contributions and nothing else. Imagine a halt being put to the credibility that somehow gets attached to paparazzi fodder. Imagine a world that practices the idiom of innocent until proven guilty. Imagine, above all else, a chance for more great songs.
I like seeing a decadent member of the American royal family ridiculed as much as the next guy, but one day we may find that intrusive camera's lens turned on us, and believe me, no one needs to know what goes on in my Neverland Ranch.
I’ve never been a huge MJ fan, but I’ve always resented how speculation has altered the current of his career. Hero or Villain, King or Clown, Black or White, I just like to see conclusions made based on truth not the pandering of Enquiring Minds.
If nothing else, his celebrity has proven that talent and evidence come second to legend.
MICHAEL MOORE
Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. They’re not always idols, when we’re lucky they’re more than enviable. The greatest heroes don’t appear as you’d expect, because they rise from the masses and make a David kind of difference in face of a Goliath kind of villain. Society rewards the Goliaths of the world… but is beginning to beware the power of one little guy… and a camera.
At this point the term ‘comeback’ might seem misleading or misplaced. This year’s Fahrenheit 911 is perhaps the successful ‘documentary’ in history. Michael Moore has never been so influential, and has never had the capacity to reach so many people with his David-ist message.
Therein lies, as I’m certain the New ‘EM ‘N EM’ would agree, the problem.
Forget the ‘effectiveness’ of his anti-Bush film, its bias narrative, or the ensuing conservative backlashes. The result is not the point… or in a way it is exactly the point. Michael Moore is not the little guy anymore… resisting humor… he has become an institution and in doing so is not the same kind of hero.
The little guy is most effective when you don’t see him coming, when you underestimate his means and his will. As a brand name, Michael Moore is a figure that you can’t not see coming… harder to resist humor… he is in danger, as all heroes are at some point, of becoming that which he most detests: an institution.
How does he change such a thing? It’s almost too easy to say such things as returning to a grass roots kind of liberal cause, and frankly I’ve already come too close to insulting him to be so bold as to suggest such a thing. Despite all I’ve mentioned, I am a fan, I’m confident his comeback will as unglorious and unenviable as is required to bring meaning back to his unfranchisable and uncompromising name.
At the heart of it all, the fame, the controversy, the opinions, and so on, we can all resoundingly agree there is an intention to do some good. Though many may disagree with the methods, the madness is sound: get your opinion out there, get people talking and together find a solution.
Heroes are champions for people overlooked and pushed aside. We live in a society that often treasures and rewards the wrong successes. I should amend that. We live in a society that should beware the little guy, because the little guy will again be Michael Moore.
CHEVY CHASE
There is a recent stir of well-deserved notoriety that surrounds the brilliant Bill Murray. The legend grows and one day will certainly encompass the ownership of an Academy Award. There are few people as deserving… well, I suppose I could think of one.
There was a time when Bill Murray and his predecessor on Saturday Night Live, Cornelius ‘Chevy’ Chase, were on very parallel paths. They led their generation as leading men-children with very few challengers. Remember that scene they did together in Caddyshack, with Chevy trying to 'play through' Bill's shed/shack/home while he tried to get him to stay and hang out? Brilliant Dueling Gonzos. Chevy’s career didn’t unfold the way Bill’s did, but if not for a couple of well played gambles, namely Wes Anderson (writer/director of Rushmore, et al.), we’d likely file these two geniuses in the same box.
I consider Chevy Chase to be among the most sadly underrated comedic actors in the history of funny films. Even more sadly still, he likely has by now reached an age when his brand of physical humor begins to seem awkward. It’s cold, but I don’t know if Clark W. Griswald could be as funny without that dopey exuberance that just seems to get diminished with age.
There is no one that can pull off that dry pratfall humor like him. It is in his finer moments, like standing his scalp into a light fixture, in which he seems confused about being absurd, that he achieves this unique signature. Steve Martin, Jim Carrey, Lou Costello, and other broader performers, own physical comedy of a different realm. I see Chevy standing with Peter Sellers, but I don’t think enough other people would agree.
Clark W. Griswald: “Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I’d like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?”
As the eighties wound down, Chase’s film career seemed to deflate. I don’t have a big problem with my movie idols aging or retiring and becoming footnotes, but with this goofball, things just seem unfinished. I believe one more divinely dumb performance could Ty, or Webb, the rest of his work together. If that last sentence confused you, watch Caddyshack… ah, watch it regardless.
Maybe Wes Anderson could create another Chevy/Bill scene for them to share, or maybe some clever writer could weave a feasible Fletch plot together… okay, I’ll get to work.
Remember in Fletch when he meets the villain's wife and makes up that horrible last name: “Cock-toe-sten… It’s Dutch-Romanian.” I love that stuff.
Be the ball, Danny. Nananana…
CHILD STARS
I’m so sick of the cliché of the child star ruined by adulthood, simply becaue of an immatured stamina that, if they were grown up, would have taken at least twice the time to break.
Of course, these are again the kind of heroes that are more public figure than role model. We don’t want to be them, but they do smile and giggle, earn that cutie-pie ‘awwww’ and mock-admiration. That is a sense of inspiration, so they are entitled to a comeback.
Very simply, what I’d like to see here is one of these human puppy dogs make the transition into adulthood in the mildly painful manner that we all endure.
Drew Barrymore, whom has ascended beyond her troubled youth, rendering it an almost forgotten footnote and has an image not at all defined by it, belongs in the winner’s column of this essay.
Very very simply, grow up. Don’t make a performance out of your own life… at least until you’re twenty-one.
POETS
This one goes out to all the wordsmiths and posers. The establishment, the ‘artists’, the wannabes, and the ingredients that make up our popular media culture. Does any one of you have a single clue what poetry is?
Poetry, real poetic creation, needs a comeback. This is highly debatable, and will certainly offend some notions and definitions; at least I hope it does.
Poetry is this: a word-crafted image that offends a previous notion or definition.
Poetry is that: I’m an individual in an individual moment.
Poetry is this: Fuck this guy typing for trying to define me.
How dare I even try.
I have a degree in English Literature. Do you know what I learned about poetry in four years? Expensive bullshit and invaluable independent thought, just what every undergrad should be learning. There are no words that should contain creativity. No one can know for sure what Emily Dickinson was saying, either literally or figuratively, but I hope she was swearing too.
Poets need a comeback. Poets can be heroes again, not because they fit a previously established label, a disheveled Bob Dylan or a demented, tortured, thoughtful… none of it. New words, new thought, and a new goddam label.
We live in a time of labeled thoughts. Contemporary poetry is simply an experiment that can’t be labeled. We shouldn't even know it's poetry... here I am trying to define it again, but you'll know it when you're creating it.
Be my hero.
ENDINGS
There is nothing as satisfying as a good ending. In our overly medicated, vacuum packed, preservative laden society we’ve forgotten that ending is as important as beginning and something we all share. We shouldn’t be afraid to appreciate the November as much as we relished the May.
Thanks for sticking around for one of my many long-winded takes on the pedestal and the people on the perch. Now that you’ve made it this far, allow me to wrap things up.
I should mention that I realize that women, well, aren’t here. Maybe I’m a misogynist, maybe my female heroes have all made their comebacks, my mom certainly has, or maybe heroines occupy a kind of flawless heroism that manages a self-sustained dialectic perfection that perpetually redefines its own greatness. You’re a smart cookie, choose your favorite.
Heroes come in two forms, Gods and Champions. Gods were born to be heroes, share little in common with their sheep, and often simply aren't real. The other kind are always more interesting because they were once us, they screw up like us, and if they’re really heroic they rise again. Nobody keeps the poster of the one hit wonder, we all wait to love and to hate and to love again the winner whose lost and got back up to fight.
Here’s to the heroes who take their second shot.
Go.
Patrick
PS. Comment Idea: Nominate Other Comeback Kids To Be.
We love our heroes. We have a natural tendency to seek figures to revere, emulate, and merchandise. There are few things as recognized in our society as the pedestal we put our heroes and achievers atop. Remarkably, the one thing more noteworthy to us is to watch those heroes fall to the ground we the mortals share. We’re fickle in our admiration, there is no doubt, and tend to be thoughtless in our outlay of this commodity, but nonetheless the admiration always exists. The still stranger aspect of hero worship is that more than we love Hero Wreckage, and more than the image of the hero itself, there is a velvet rope, a red carpet and a standing ovation waiting for the hero that falls and rises again. There are few images as majestic as the eagle soaring, but prepare to put your hands together for the phoenix kicking some ash. Yes, I said ash.
Maybe it’s that we feel more of kinship with a hero that suffers the weakness of humanity and failure. Perhaps we give more validity to that victory because it is closer to something we ourselves could achieve. Maybe the hardship itself is something similar to an experience felt by our loved ones or ourselves. For whatever reason, heroes with that fallible human weakness, the ones that ride high, fall to earth, and make a staggering comeback are always the ones we remember, no matter how much we want to forget them.
A red cape and a bullet-bouncing chest are great, but isn’t it so that bruises, blood, and a worthy victory a true hero make?
Below is a list of heroes, otherwise known as celebrities, public figures, tabloid fodder, idols, clowns, what have you. The only thing that these tragic heroes share is unfinished business in the eyes of this particular mere mortal. None of us will lose any sleep if none of these once-heroes continue down their respective roads to anonymity, but it would be nice to see them put foot to ass. If for no other reason, to give value to our adoration and to the pedestal space they once occupied.
CHRISTOPHER REEVE
Why not start off with an actual hero?
When I was a kid, Superman was the man. He was the idol for me, and continues to occupy every memento space in that segment of my long-term memory. There was no hero, no bird, and no plane that came before or faster than a speeding bullet. My mom made for this awesome costume for me that I wore for two consecutive Halloweens and pretty much every day in between. When you’re a kid, that popular fiction idol is your god, your moon and stars. They help you feel okay about the world.
Kids of my generation grew up with a different Superman than generations before. For us, comic books and TV serials weren’t it, Christopher Reeve was it. Though some consider the role to be a shadow cast over his career, that role beams a light on my childhood as bright as our planet’s yellow sun.
I can remember a selfish disbelief in the news of my childhood hero’s severed spine. I shook my head and waited for that image of youth to be youthful again, to heroically defeat any notion of mortality. Idols, parents, and saviors, oh my, why do they ever have to show us faults and ruin everything?
In his second life Reeve became a new kind of hero, there’s no question. He earned an immortality beyond and yet somehow an interesting compliment to his celluloid legacy.
Some would argue that he did make his comeback. That he continued fighting when he could have relented, and in his legacy he’s blown a hole through a comeback, standing up to an enemy more diabolical than any comic book villain. Many would argue even that he won. These people, incidentally, are heroic in their own way.
Here’s a guy who made a huge comeback and still deserved more to come back to. He was a hero who was down, but not in the typical form of popular opinion. We all needed this guy to come back and show that a human who looked cool in a blue leotard could be a man of steel again. The little kid inside me wearing that cape and those big red boots would have relished it too.
It’s almost cliché at this point to even call attention to something so blatantly obvious, as though I’m proudly unveiling my newly invented wheel, but I don’t care if I’m preaching to a worldwide choir. He fought valiantly and has earned the stature he will eternally hold, but Christopher Reeve deserved to stand over his vanquished foe, he deserved to come back and... stand.
MICHAEL JACKSON
I wouldn’t presume to think that I’m about to say anything that hasn’t been said. But nonetheless…
Is there any greater modern tale of tragic celebrity than that of the King of Pop? I am apprehensive about his position on this list simply because I can’t fathom a nook or cranny of his public persona that hasn’t at this point been hammered into the ground under the weight of a thousand telephoto lenses.
He represents the quintessential good and bad, the height of talent and the evil incarnations of too many aspects of his industry to mention. What stands out among the many trails he’s blazed, both for those who’ve followed and where most dare not tread, are two major gospels of modern public life, accomplishment and speculation.
He is the epitome of a life of invited invasion. His face may appear in the dictionary under several notorious titles, but most are based in the speculative and alleged. What happens when you spend your entire life under a microscope? You find it very difficult to conceal the parts of you that you didn’t know you had to hide. And if you don’t name those parts yourself, someone’s going to go ahead and name them for you. He has set the bar for being judged by elements completely separate from that which he offers the world. He gives us music, we judge his appearance.
Of course, the grand tragedy of his life still unfolding is the genius that is still acknowledged and thought to be squandered. In many ways the mold he has cast will never be duplicated or improved upon. His accomplishments are every bit as well known as his controversies. He has influenced the recordings and stage shows of every single performer to follow in his genre.
He is the King of Pop, and there’s no amount of eccentricity that can take that away and make us stop paying attention. Many aspects of the King, Ex-Son In Law to another King, are as plain as the nose on his face. An easy one, I know.
Cleary eccentric, potentially troubled, obviously talented, an immortal performer, an inspired dancer, a constantly emulated artist.
A self-loathing man-child with too many resources for his own well-being? Perhaps.
A man fixated too much on recapturing his stolen childhood? Quite possibly.
A pedophile? Unproven.
Innocent until proven guilty? Not on your life.
A hero to many and due for a serious comeback? Absolutely.
He could change things. There has been very few if any public figures whose life has been dissected to the lengths that his has. Granted, there have been very few lives presented as fantastically theatrically absurd. If he could turn it all around, he could set another standard for all that follow him.
Imagine acknowledging and appreciating a popular artist for their artistic contributions and nothing else. Imagine a halt being put to the credibility that somehow gets attached to paparazzi fodder. Imagine a world that practices the idiom of innocent until proven guilty. Imagine, above all else, a chance for more great songs.
I like seeing a decadent member of the American royal family ridiculed as much as the next guy, but one day we may find that intrusive camera's lens turned on us, and believe me, no one needs to know what goes on in my Neverland Ranch.
I’ve never been a huge MJ fan, but I’ve always resented how speculation has altered the current of his career. Hero or Villain, King or Clown, Black or White, I just like to see conclusions made based on truth not the pandering of Enquiring Minds.
If nothing else, his celebrity has proven that talent and evidence come second to legend.
MICHAEL MOORE
Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. They’re not always idols, when we’re lucky they’re more than enviable. The greatest heroes don’t appear as you’d expect, because they rise from the masses and make a David kind of difference in face of a Goliath kind of villain. Society rewards the Goliaths of the world… but is beginning to beware the power of one little guy… and a camera.
At this point the term ‘comeback’ might seem misleading or misplaced. This year’s Fahrenheit 911 is perhaps the successful ‘documentary’ in history. Michael Moore has never been so influential, and has never had the capacity to reach so many people with his David-ist message.
Therein lies, as I’m certain the New ‘EM ‘N EM’ would agree, the problem.
Forget the ‘effectiveness’ of his anti-Bush film, its bias narrative, or the ensuing conservative backlashes. The result is not the point… or in a way it is exactly the point. Michael Moore is not the little guy anymore… resisting humor… he has become an institution and in doing so is not the same kind of hero.
The little guy is most effective when you don’t see him coming, when you underestimate his means and his will. As a brand name, Michael Moore is a figure that you can’t not see coming… harder to resist humor… he is in danger, as all heroes are at some point, of becoming that which he most detests: an institution.
How does he change such a thing? It’s almost too easy to say such things as returning to a grass roots kind of liberal cause, and frankly I’ve already come too close to insulting him to be so bold as to suggest such a thing. Despite all I’ve mentioned, I am a fan, I’m confident his comeback will as unglorious and unenviable as is required to bring meaning back to his unfranchisable and uncompromising name.
At the heart of it all, the fame, the controversy, the opinions, and so on, we can all resoundingly agree there is an intention to do some good. Though many may disagree with the methods, the madness is sound: get your opinion out there, get people talking and together find a solution.
Heroes are champions for people overlooked and pushed aside. We live in a society that often treasures and rewards the wrong successes. I should amend that. We live in a society that should beware the little guy, because the little guy will again be Michael Moore.
CHEVY CHASE
There is a recent stir of well-deserved notoriety that surrounds the brilliant Bill Murray. The legend grows and one day will certainly encompass the ownership of an Academy Award. There are few people as deserving… well, I suppose I could think of one.
There was a time when Bill Murray and his predecessor on Saturday Night Live, Cornelius ‘Chevy’ Chase, were on very parallel paths. They led their generation as leading men-children with very few challengers. Remember that scene they did together in Caddyshack, with Chevy trying to 'play through' Bill's shed/shack/home while he tried to get him to stay and hang out? Brilliant Dueling Gonzos. Chevy’s career didn’t unfold the way Bill’s did, but if not for a couple of well played gambles, namely Wes Anderson (writer/director of Rushmore, et al.), we’d likely file these two geniuses in the same box.
I consider Chevy Chase to be among the most sadly underrated comedic actors in the history of funny films. Even more sadly still, he likely has by now reached an age when his brand of physical humor begins to seem awkward. It’s cold, but I don’t know if Clark W. Griswald could be as funny without that dopey exuberance that just seems to get diminished with age.
There is no one that can pull off that dry pratfall humor like him. It is in his finer moments, like standing his scalp into a light fixture, in which he seems confused about being absurd, that he achieves this unique signature. Steve Martin, Jim Carrey, Lou Costello, and other broader performers, own physical comedy of a different realm. I see Chevy standing with Peter Sellers, but I don’t think enough other people would agree.
Clark W. Griswald: “Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I’d like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?”
As the eighties wound down, Chase’s film career seemed to deflate. I don’t have a big problem with my movie idols aging or retiring and becoming footnotes, but with this goofball, things just seem unfinished. I believe one more divinely dumb performance could Ty, or Webb, the rest of his work together. If that last sentence confused you, watch Caddyshack… ah, watch it regardless.
Maybe Wes Anderson could create another Chevy/Bill scene for them to share, or maybe some clever writer could weave a feasible Fletch plot together… okay, I’ll get to work.
Remember in Fletch when he meets the villain's wife and makes up that horrible last name: “Cock-toe-sten… It’s Dutch-Romanian.” I love that stuff.
Be the ball, Danny. Nananana…
CHILD STARS
I’m so sick of the cliché of the child star ruined by adulthood, simply becaue of an immatured stamina that, if they were grown up, would have taken at least twice the time to break.
Of course, these are again the kind of heroes that are more public figure than role model. We don’t want to be them, but they do smile and giggle, earn that cutie-pie ‘awwww’ and mock-admiration. That is a sense of inspiration, so they are entitled to a comeback.
Very simply, what I’d like to see here is one of these human puppy dogs make the transition into adulthood in the mildly painful manner that we all endure.
Drew Barrymore, whom has ascended beyond her troubled youth, rendering it an almost forgotten footnote and has an image not at all defined by it, belongs in the winner’s column of this essay.
Very very simply, grow up. Don’t make a performance out of your own life… at least until you’re twenty-one.
POETS
This one goes out to all the wordsmiths and posers. The establishment, the ‘artists’, the wannabes, and the ingredients that make up our popular media culture. Does any one of you have a single clue what poetry is?
Poetry, real poetic creation, needs a comeback. This is highly debatable, and will certainly offend some notions and definitions; at least I hope it does.
Poetry is this: a word-crafted image that offends a previous notion or definition.
Poetry is that: I’m an individual in an individual moment.
Poetry is this: Fuck this guy typing for trying to define me.
How dare I even try.
I have a degree in English Literature. Do you know what I learned about poetry in four years? Expensive bullshit and invaluable independent thought, just what every undergrad should be learning. There are no words that should contain creativity. No one can know for sure what Emily Dickinson was saying, either literally or figuratively, but I hope she was swearing too.
Poets need a comeback. Poets can be heroes again, not because they fit a previously established label, a disheveled Bob Dylan or a demented, tortured, thoughtful… none of it. New words, new thought, and a new goddam label.
We live in a time of labeled thoughts. Contemporary poetry is simply an experiment that can’t be labeled. We shouldn't even know it's poetry... here I am trying to define it again, but you'll know it when you're creating it.
Be my hero.
ENDINGS
There is nothing as satisfying as a good ending. In our overly medicated, vacuum packed, preservative laden society we’ve forgotten that ending is as important as beginning and something we all share. We shouldn’t be afraid to appreciate the November as much as we relished the May.
Thanks for sticking around for one of my many long-winded takes on the pedestal and the people on the perch. Now that you’ve made it this far, allow me to wrap things up.
I should mention that I realize that women, well, aren’t here. Maybe I’m a misogynist, maybe my female heroes have all made their comebacks, my mom certainly has, or maybe heroines occupy a kind of flawless heroism that manages a self-sustained dialectic perfection that perpetually redefines its own greatness. You’re a smart cookie, choose your favorite.
Heroes come in two forms, Gods and Champions. Gods were born to be heroes, share little in common with their sheep, and often simply aren't real. The other kind are always more interesting because they were once us, they screw up like us, and if they’re really heroic they rise again. Nobody keeps the poster of the one hit wonder, we all wait to love and to hate and to love again the winner whose lost and got back up to fight.
Here’s to the heroes who take their second shot.
Go.
Patrick
PS. Comment Idea: Nominate Other Comeback Kids To Be.
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