A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity

by Bill O'Reilly

  Truly, the words of this song drove me nuts.

  Sloopy, I don’t care what your daddy do.

  ’Cause you know, Sloopy, girl, I’m in love with yoooouuuu.

  “I don’t care what your daddy do”? Are you kidding me? Good grief. The song stayed in the top forty for eleven weeks, and during that time I broached with my parents the subject of possibly moving to Argentina.

  Almost as bad was my guy Elvis singing a song called “Do the Clam.” That incredible travesty also happened in 1965, and it hurt me deeply. By that time, I had accepted the fact that the big E was living in a daze, starring in films like Harum Scarum and Kissin’ Cousins. But Girl Happy was the absolute worst. In that movie, Elvis sang the following lyrics. They made my head hurt:

  Do the clam, do the clam,

  Grab your barefoot baby by the hand.

  And not only did Elvis warble those words; he did so while wearing a white suit and black shoes. My God.

  On the political scene, Vice President Spiro Agnew was a complete mystery of the universe. His friends called him Ted, and for some unknown reason, Richard Nixon selected “Ted” to be his running mate in 1968. And they actually won the White House twice! But, again, be careful what you wish for. In 1973, Ted was indicted for federal income tax evasion and was forced to resign, barely slithering out of a prison sentence. It turned out that Ted had raked in a total of $268,482 in bribes from builders while he was governor of Maryland. Nice. And when he asked the bribe givers to keep paying him in the veep’s office, they got teed off and called the feds. Eventually, investigators proved him to be a hard-core crook, as was Nixon. But at least Nixon knew stuff. Ted just ran around calling the press “nattering nabobs of negativism.” Which is true, but, hey, you’ve got to bring more to the table than that.

  When I asked my father about Agnew, he said just one word: “Clown.”

  As I mentioned, I saw many monster movies as a kid. And like Bill Murray’s gang, the Ghostbusters, who were ready to believe anyone who would pay them to find spirits, I was always ready to believe what was up there on the screen. Dracula, for sure, was not a guy to be messed with, but there were lots of crosses in my house, so he wasn’t much of a threat to me. The Invisible Man did not haunt me; I’m not exactly sure why. And Frankenstein’s monster was over there in Bavaria someplace and not likely to book a transatlantic flight anytime soon.

  It was the Mummy, though, that drove me crazy. In the original 1932 film, Boris Karloff came back to life after some English guys violated the tomb of an ancient Egyptian princess. Okay, fine, I’m buying the curse business that forced Karloff to rise from his sarcophagus. But here’s the problem: the Mummy was slow…very…very…slow. It took him three days to do the hundred-yard dash. And, unlike Dracula, he couldn’t hypnotize you with his eyes, because they were covered with dusty bandages. Are you getting the picture? So anybody could simply run away from the Mummy—he couldn’t catch Mount Rushmore. But every time Boris showed up, his victim just stood there screaming. Didn’t try to run at all. The person just let the Mummy walk up and strangle him. This was insane.

  I remember loudly saying to my friends during the movie, “Why doesn’t the guy just run away?” Other moviegoers shushed me, but it was a legitimate question. All of us should have demanded refunds.

  Tiny Tim also drove me nuts. Not the Dickens character in The Christmas Carol, but a guy from Brooklyn named Herbert Khaury who showed up on the Johnny Carson program singing a song called “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” Khaury used the name Tiny Tim, and was as revolting a presence as I’ve ever seen on TV. Strumming a stupid ukulele and showing off long, stringy, unkempt hair, the Tiny guy was a train wreck. But Carson loved him and made him a star, at least for the year 1968. As you may remember, Tiny “married” a woman called Miss Vicki on Carson’s show, capping off as bizarre a career as has ever been seen in this country. By the way, about 40 million Americans viewed the unbelievably hyped “wedding.” More, even, than watch the Factor.

  Not much better was The Beverly Hillbillies. Again, inexplicable. This program, along with Green Acres and Gilligan’s Island, insulted the word dumb, but, for some reason, millions of Americans could not stop watching. I cannot explain this, and it has disturbed me since childhood.

  See, most of the time, I really do understand why things happen in our culture. In matters of entertainment, individual tastes obviously rule. For example, I like the Bee Gees, because, to me, their tunes and harmonies are pleasing. But lots of folks hate the Brothers Gibb, believing their songs to be trite. I can relate to that, but obviously, trite doesn’t much bother me.

  On the other hand, I could never listen to a group like Metallica. Not for a minute. But millions of folks like the heavy-metal stuff, and I have no problem with that. Every person hears sound in a unique way. But, let’s face it, there is no excuse for a group called the 1910 Fruitgum Company, whose first single, “Simon Says,” rose to number two in 1968. A cultural tragedy if there ever was one.

  In 1970, I walked out of a movie called Love Story. It was just too much. Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal, madly infatuated, mouthing lines like, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Awful, and what does that mean, exactly? I step on your foot and don’t apologize because I’m in love? “Oh, I stepped on your toes, madam; forgive me because I can’t apologize. I made out with Ali MacGraw last night and can never apologize for anything ever again.”

  Back then, the ladies at Vassar College were buying this Love Story stuff big-time, but the thugs living with me at Marist College were having none of it. In fact, any guy who liked that film was immediately mocked and scorned beyond belief. To Marist’s everlasting honor, approving of Love Story was a campus career breaker.

  Later, I learned that Al Gore, a student at Harvard when Love Story author Erich Segal taught there, may have been the inspiration for the lead character. And even though Al was rumored to have embraced the Love Story speculation, it is brutally unfair to him because, I believe, all the hot air spewed in that movie was the beginning of the global warming crisis. And I resent that very much.

  Perhaps the worst movie I’ve ever seen was Moment to Moment, a 1978 bomb starring John Travolta and Lily Tomlin. Moment to Moment makes Love Story look like Citizen Kane.

  For mental health reasons, I’ve tried to block this movie out of my mind, but I do remember Ms. Tomlin, fifteen years Travolta’s senior, getting into a hot tub with him. Was Ruth Buzzi not available? Anyway, Travolta was wearing a Speedo, and Lily was, well, appreciating him. All I can say is that this was not a high point in the history of heterosexuality. Also, I kept wondering what the Welcome Back, Kotter guys, the Sweathogs, would say.

  A few years later, Travolta starred in another hydrogen bomb called Perfect. In this one, he and Jamie Lee Curtis work out in a health club and fall in love amid the free weights. I kept waiting for someone to say, “Love means never having to do aerobics.” But it never happened. In fact, nothing really happened. Unless you count Jamie Lee perspiring in skintight gym clothes, which, believe me, is no small thing.

  After the Perfect embarrassment, Travolta did not make another film for four years. Then, in 1989, he made a comeback with a baby movie called Look Who’s Talking. Good for him. Even though he has a definite karma debt for Moment to Moment and Perfect, I’m glad the guy made it back.

  It is truly a mystery of the universe as to how some movies get made. These days, few Americans even bother going to the theater unless they want to keep their little kids quiet with a dose of Shrek. Hollywood moguls, understanding that computers provide a vast array of at-home entertainment for Americans, now make most movies for people in Bangladesh. That explains the return of Rambo.

  Looking back, during the late 1960s and early 1970s there were unexplained expositions nearly every day. For example, in the fall of 1967 a song called “Incense and Peppermints” hit number one. The group that sang the song was called Strawberry Alarm Clock. What does that name mean? W
hy not call the group Cinnamon Raisin Toast? I mean, people were so fried back then that anything was acceptable as long as it was “far out.”

  My theory is that folks got so fed up with the 1960s “psychedelic rock” that, in desperation, they turned to disco. Tell me that listening to Vanilla Fudge or Iron Butterfly won’t make you crazy after a while. So, with insanity in the wind, Saturday Night Fever arrived on the scene.

  Actually, that blockbuster 1977 movie, starring the aforementioned John Travolta, was an excellent depiction of working-class Brooklyn in those days. I completely understand the film’s success. But the societal craze it spawned requires some deep thought, some of it very painful.

  No question but that some disco tunes were catchy and vibrant. And, take it from me, it was fun to go out and make a complete fool of yourself on the dance floor. Thus, at the height of the disco craze in the late 1970s, you had college graduates actually singing along with KC and the Sunshine Band:

  That’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh,

  I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

  That’s the way, uh-huh uh-huh,

  I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.

  If you buy the album, you’ll hear that chorus at least ninety-seven times in the course of the song. Can you explain that to me?

  The disco era crashed and died in the mid-eighties, but not before Donna Summer, the Village People, and KC burned their images into the fabric of America. Go to any wedding reception today and say hello to them for me.

  Hands down, the worst hit song I have ever heard, and that includes the Sloopster, is the Willie Nelson–Julio Iglesias atrocity “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.” Arrest warrants should have been sworn out immediately after that turkey hit the marketplace.

  In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that I interviewed Willie Nelson way back in 1977. As a young reporter in Dallas, I was sent out to get his take on something or other. I can’t remember exactly what. However, I do recall that during the interview, which took place on his bus, Nelson smoked pot and waved a pistol around. That didn’t faze me much, but it was weird, no question.

  Anyway, in 1984, Nelson and Iglesias, a rather smarmy Latin ballad singer, put out this song that congratulates women on sleeping with them. The big line in the recording is “We’re glad they came along.” Now, I’m no feminist or anything, but that sounds just a wee bit condescending. Does it not? “We’re glad they came along”? Just for laughs, run that by some ladies and see how they react.

  Yet, incredibly, the song hit number one on the country chart and spent three months on the pop chart, peaking at number five. If there’s a bigger mystery in the universe, please let me know.

  But wait, I might have found a bigger one. In 1980, Willie Nelson appeared in a movie called Honeysuckle Rose along with actress Dyan Cannon. At the time, Ms. Cannon was forty-three years old and a great-looking woman. I didn’t see the film, but I understand that Dyan, who was once married to Cary Grant, and Nelson actually hooked up romantically! The only thing I can figure out is that the movie studios mixed up Honeysuckle Rose and Moment to Moment. It was supposed to be Dyan Cannon romancing John Travolta and Lily Tomlin with Willie Nelson. Now, that might sound unfair to Ms. Tomlin, but there is no other credible explanation.

  Currently, there are many cultural mysteries still in play. For one, I know people who can watch six hours of American Idol a week. They call one another and talk about some young girl from Rhode Island who sings “Respect” and then gets heckled by Simon Cowell. Again, if anyone can explain this, please write.

  Dancing with the Stars is big, too. Once, a guy named Tucker Carlson appeared on that program and did the mambo or something. Carlson is a political commentator on TV who has not been very successful. I watched Carlson dancing on that program. This tape should be airlifted to Guantánamo Bay for interrogation use.

  You may know that a rapper named Snoop Dogg has made millions of dollars. He used to call himself “Snoop Doggy Dogg,” but dropped the Doggy. No one knows why. One of his big hits includes the phrase “I want’a do something freaky to you.” Actually, I’ve never heard this song, but that lyric sounds great, doesn’t it? Nat King Cole, I’m sure, would have loved it.

  By the way, Mr. Dogg’s mom appeared on the Factor. Nice woman. She said that her son, whose given name is Calvin Broadus Jr., is nice to her. Beyond that, she can’t imagine why he’s been arrested so many times but believes it might be a misunderstanding of some kind.

  Vice President Dick Cheney is a complete mystery to me. I interviewed him back in 1990, and that was it. He would never again consent to be interviewed by the bold, fresh guy. During my one chat with Cheney, I pushed him on why the press didn’t like him. In fact, the press despises Cheney so much they’d rather dine with the late Idi Amin. Cheney would not concede the loathing.

  The main problem with Cheney and, to a lesser extent, with President Bush is that they rarely explain themselves to “we, the people.” When Iraq went south, Cheney went hunting. Not very responsible, since he was one of the prime “get Saddam” guys. He should have been out there explaining what the hell was going on. But he didn’t. The result? His MIA status allowed NBC News and the New York Times to define the issue. Disastrous. Also, not fair to brave men and women fighting in that conflict, and not fair to their families here at home. Cheney should have stood up.

  Call me crazy, but I’d like all elected officials to be stand-up guys and gals. If you make a mistake, admit it. If the going gets tough, explain. Cheney essentially hid out for eight years in his lavish Washington residence and now will retire to his lavish Wyoming residence with a handsome pension paid for by you and me. We deserved more for our money.

  By the way, I’ve sat close to Dick Cheney at two Washington dinners. He is a smart and witty man. But he’s kept that very secret, hasn’t he? Another mystery.

  Will someone please explain why ultrafortunate entertainment people abuse the regular folks who have made them rich and famous? This is an amazing phenomenon, and the two best examples of it are Seinfeld and The Sopranos.

  You may remember that in the final episode of Seinfeld, the wacky cast wound up in some small-town jail. It was not funny. After nine years of clever writing and brilliant comedic acting, Seinfeld’s closing act rivaled Petticoat Junction in witty payoff. So what the heck happened?

  Since I’m pretty sure I understand the deep cynicism of head writer Larry David and also the middling cynicism of Jerry Seinfeld, I think these guys tanked the final episode on purpose. Perhaps they were simply tired of all the show-closing hype and went out to lunch. The last show was definitely a big “whatever.” There is no other explanation, especially if you acknowledge what could have happened.

  Using Johnny Carson’s brilliant last program as a model, all the Seinfeld people had to do was assemble the cast for a one-hour “best moments” special. Just let the characters kick it around, telling viewers what mattered to them and why, and then roll in the clips. Give the folks some inside-baseball as to how the show came together each week, and then wrap it up with some bloopers. David and Seinfeld could have outlined that slam-dunk show in ten minutes.

  Instead, they produced a dud final episode that the scriptwriters for My Mother the Car would have rejected.

  The Sopranos was even worse. Here we had a multiweek story arc that viewers closely followed. Millions of people invested their time and were looking forward to some kind of resolution and payoff in the last episode. If you are a fan of the program, you know that low-level gangster Tony Soprano, played brilliantly by James Gandolfini, was a ruthless but not totally evil criminal, a complicated man whom many viewers thought about even after the episodes ended.

  So, after seven seasons on the air, expectations of the show’s climax were running incredibly high. Would the feds get Tony? Would other mobsters take him out? Would his family be harmed? What would finally happen to the big guy?

  Nothing, that’s what.

  The producer of The Sopr
anos, David Chase, totally punted. In the final scene, Tony and his family were eating at some New Jersey diner while an ominous-looking guy glared at them from across the restaurant. Fade to black. Fade to stupid. I was outraged, and I believe I was not alone. I sat there in my living room wanting to take out a contract on Mr. Chase.

  But, hey, I was stupid as well. I expected the creative minds behind Seinfeld and The Sopranos to consider the expectations of the audience. After all, as I noted earlier, it is those people who make people like Jerry Seinfeld, Larry David, David Chase, and their cast members rich and famous. How about looking out for the folks and giving them an enjoyable send-off?

  Forget it.

  Perhaps I’m wrong, but I believe what happened on Seinfeld and The Sopranos demonstrates a condescending contempt for the audience that is common in Hollywood. What other explanation is there? All the producers had to do was test the final episodes for a selected group of viewers (commonly done in the TV industry), and they could have instantly found out they were not delivering the goods.

  But I believe they knew that from the jump. Those people are smart. They just didn’t care.

  Of course, these are only TV programs, and they don’t really matter much in the big scheme of things. But what those guys did was not fair to the audience. “Fair”—now, that’s an interesting concept. “Fair” is the reason I’m even discussing Seinfeld and The Sopranos. You see, imposing a sense of fairness on the world is what drives me in my profession and, basically, in my life. And the same might even be true for you.