A. You know, if a character on a TV sitcom ever said that line, there would be a laugh track right after it.
Q. I suppose so. One more question. I understand that you also believe that there was a certain relationship between the Oklahoma bombing and the murder of Laci Peterson and her unborn baby.
A. Oh, definitely. This never came out in my trial, but it was Scott Peterson who sold me those two tons of fertilizer.
DUELING MEMORIES
At Wordstock, the first annual Portland (Oregon) Book Festival, I was invited to open for Norman Mailer and then introduce him.
“The thing I most admire about Mailer,” I said, “is a combination of his courage as a writer and how much he respects the craft. He writes in longhand with a number two pencil, he told me once, because it puts him in more direct contact with the paper that he’s writing on, and I felt so guilty because I was still using a typewriter at the time. You remember typewriters. In fact, I have a niece who saw a manual typewriter, and she said, ‘What’s that for?’ I explained, and she said, ‘Well, where do you plug it in?’ ‘You don’t have to plug it in, you just push the keys.’ And she said, ‘That’s awesome!’
“Anyway, one aspect of Norman Mailer’s craft is that he chooses his words very carefully. Or, as he would say, ‘One chooses one’s words very carefully.’ The thing that I recall, the words that he chose most carefully, of all the books he’s written, was something that he said when I asked him how he felt about circumcision. He thought for a moment, then he chose his words carefully and, with a twinkle in his eye—one of his main characteristics—he said, ‘Well, I believe that if Jews didn’t have circumcision, they would punch their babies in the nose and break them. . . .’”
When Mailer came on stage, walking with the aid of two canes because of a severe arthritic condition, he received a standing ovation. He eased himself on to a high chair behind the podium.
“Gee, Paul, I didn’t know how to start tonight,” he said, “but maybe you got me going. Now, if I ever made that remark, that the reason Jews get circumcised is to keep them from breaking their babies’ noses, all I can say is that I must have been down in the lower depths of a very bad marijuana trip. But I think, even at my worst, I couldn’t really have said that. Paul is a master of hyperbole. He loves hyperbole, as for example when Lyndon Johnson attacked the wound in JFK’s head.
“At any rate, if I did say it, I would forgive myself now for having said it, because circumcision happens to be something that every Jewish male thinks about every day of his life. It makes us obsessive for a very simple reason. We don’t know if it’s an asset or a liability. And I’m not speaking of it lightly. I’m speaking of psychic castration that may make us smarter or it may not. We worry about things like that. So I will say categorically, that if I ever made that remark, I was out of my head, and to the best of my marijuana memory, I never made it. I want to thank you, Paul, for making that up and giving me a beginning tonight, and for warming up this audience. . . .”
CONFESSIONS OF A RACIST
[This was a blog, published on HuffingtonPost.com.]
Oh, sure, Crash is intertwined with more coincidences than an entire season’s episodes of Seinfeld, and, yeah, maybe there’s an unrelenting amalgam of racial conflicts, but for me, seeing that movie certainly served to trigger an exploration of my own evolution as a prejudiced Caucasian-American heterosexual male, privileged at birth. At the age of four, I was so innocent that, riding in the subway with my pregnant mother, on the way to my violin lesson, I pointed to a colored baby and said, “See, that’s the kind I want.” I didn’t understand why my mother was embarrased and shushed me.
By 1950, though, when my first girlfriend told me that she had dated a Negro, I blurted out, “Did you kiss him on the lips?” I was even more stunned than she was. Hearing myself say that was a shocking wake-up calI. It would be necessary to unbrainwash myself from all the nuances of bigotry that I had so thoroughly and unconsciously absorbed by cultural osmosis. I became involved in the civil rights movement and later published anti-racist material in The Realist.
In 1961, Dick Gregory requested that I interview him. It turned out that we had the same favorite poem, Rudyard Kipling’s If—both of us kept a copy in our wallets. He told me how he first knew he was black at the age of five, when white people would give him a nickel to rub his nappy hair for good luck, and I told him how I felt like a freak at the age of six, when I was a child prodigy and became the youngest concert artist in any field to perform at Carnegie Hall, and white people would rub my wavy hair—for free. Gregory and I became close friends and fellow demonstrators. He told me that I was the first white man he’d ever invited to his home to meet his family. After dinner, I watched television with his kids and laughed with them at the Clairol commercial that spouted, “If I have only one life to live, let me live it as a blonde!”
In 1971, I had a radio talk show at a station where the ratio of whites and blacks was about even. There was a party at the home of a staffer, where a bunch of us—same ratio—were getting stoned in the kitchen, and becoming slightly hysterical as we took turns parodying racial stereotypes. A black acquaintance patted me on the shoulder and, not realizing that he had just entered, I continued in the established mode and said what was intended as a contribution to that running gag, “Oh, excuse me, I forget your name, you all look alike.” It was as if I had punched him in the solar plexus. “Yes,” he hissed, “we all do look alike.” Now, 34 years later, I still have a twinge of shame that my carelessness allowed me to hurt him like that.
Just a few days ago, I was watching the news when the bell rang. My wife Nancy went to the door. I could hear a salesman’s voice. He wanted to sell us window-washing equipment, but this wasn’t a good time for us. Instead of leaving his card, he increased the pressure. I called out, “She said not now!” He continued attempting to persuade her. I shouted, “Please leave!” On a visceral level, I felt bad, but when I looked out the window and saw an African-American walking away, I felt way worse. Equality was my original goal, but I seem to have become a reverse racist in the process.
THE RUMPLEFORESKIN AWARDS FOR 2004
The Chutzpah Above and Beyond the Call of Duty Award—to Mark Geragos, attorney for Scott Peterson, for seeking donations to continue the investigation into the murders of Peterson’s pregnant wife to help “free the man we know is innocent.”
The Best Legal Argument Award—to Aaron McKinney, co-murderer of Matthew Shepherd, denying that they killed him because he was gay: “I would say it wasn’t a hate crime. All I wanted to do was beat him up and rob him.”
The Influencing the Jury Pool Award—to Mad magazine for its cover showing Michael Jackson with his arm around Alfred E. Neuman, who, despite his “What, me worry?” philosophy, is looking frightened. Very frightened.
The Most Presidential Statement Award—to George W. Bush, who, while visiting wounded troops at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington and expressing condolences to relatives of service members killed in Mosul, said, “Today, we had a rocket attack that took a lot of lives. Any time of the year is a time of sorrow and sadness when we lose a loss of life.”
The Reporters Simply Doing Their Job Award—to syndicated columnists Russell Mokhiber and Robert Weissman, who asked Scott McLellan, the president’s press secretary: “Scott, on the Middle East—many evangelical Christians in the United States are supporting right-wing Jews in Israel who want to rebuild the temple on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. They [evangelical Christians] believe this is a prerequisite for Christ’s return to earth. They believe that when Christ returns to earth—they call this The Rapture—he will take back with him the true believers. And the rest—the non-believers, Jews, Muslims—will be left behind to face a violent death here on earth. As a born again Christian, does the president support efforts to rebuild the temple on the Temple Mount?” McLellan ended the press conference right there, and they didn’t get a chance to ask their follow-up, “Does t
he president believe in The Rapture and does he believe that during The Rapture he will be snatched up and taken by Christ to Heaven, or will he be ‘left behind’ to face a violent death here on earth?”
The Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder Award—to anybody even remotely connected with federally funded programs that present untrue information to students, such as the textbook which states that touching another person’s genitals “can result in pregnancy” and that exposure to sweat and tears is a risk factor for HIV transmission.
The Best Reason for Resigning Award—this one is a tie: to Colin Powell, who wanted to spend more time with his conscience; and to Bernard Kerik, who wanted to spend more time with his nanny.
The Conspiratorial Freudian Slip Award—to Donald Rumsfeld, who said on Christmas Eve at Camp Victory in Baghdad: “And I think all of us have a sense if we imagine the kind of world we would face if the people who bombed the mess hall in Mosul, or the people who did the bombing in Spain, or the people who attacked the United States in New York, shot down the plane over Pennsylvania and attacked the Pentagon, the people who cut off people’s heads on television to intimidate, to frighten—indeed the word ‘terrorized’ is just that. Its purpose is to terrorize, to alter behavior, to make people be something other than that which they want to be.”
The Recycling for the Environment Award—to Nicole Kidman, for passing on her fake nose in The Hours to Jim Carrey to use as his fake nose in Lemony Snicket.
The Totally Erasing the Previously Merely Blurred Line Between Satire and Reality Award—to the editors of the online Ironic Times, for this headline and subhead: “Pfizer: Celebrex Doubles Risk of Heart Attack—but still an effective treatment for arthritis”—which is essentially what was stated by Pfizer CEO Hank McKinnell.
The Best Perspective Restorer Award—to Yahoo! News: Entertainment—AP Gossip/Celebrity: “Czech supermodel Petra Nemcova, who appeared on the cover of 2003 Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, was injured . . . in the Asian tsunami disaster.”
The Minimalist Approach to the Cultural Divide Award—to Bill Donahue, head of the Catholic League, for providing middle America’s new mantra: “Hollywood Loves Anal Sex.”
The Maintaining High Standards Award—to the Estate of Johnny Cash, for refusing to allow a hemorrhoid commercial to use Cash’s song, “Ring of Fire.”
Finally, The Edible Miracles Award—to the Virgin Mary, who appeared in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, and on her chest was the distinct image of a grilled cheese sandwich.
May the year 2005 prove to be better than a catastrophic success for you and all your loved ones. And be sure to get vaccinated against Mad Tofu Disease.
THE DEVIL IN THE DESERT
During the four years and ten weeks that Nancy and I have lived in Desert Hot Springs, we’ve observed the evolution of a small town into a burgeoning city. One of the early signs was the opening of a Thai restaurant. So many customers showed up on the first night that they ran out of food. The latest sign is that the rumor of a Starbucks being on the way has turned out to be true.
In our neighborhood, the city has just put in a sewer system and paved the roads. On the main street, Palm Drive, traffic lights have replaced the honor system at a couple of intersections. A UPS branch recently opened. A medical center is on the cusp of pure fantasy and planning stage. And, to quote the front-page headline in the current issue of a gung-ho conservative, bi-weekly tabloid, the Valley Breeze, “Desert Hot Springs Police Add New Taser X-26 Weapon to its Arsenol [sic].”
The population was 7,000 when Nancy first visited here in 1978. Now it’s 20,000. There are 40 hotels and spas that pump the odorless, healing mineral water out of the ground at 120 to 180 degrees. And last year, the cold water, which is filtered through sand several hundred feet below the hot water aquifer, won the Gold Medal for Best Tasting Muncipal Water at the Berkeley Springs International Water Tasting competition. We no longer buy bottled water.
Our move from Venice Beach to Desert Hot Springs—from the motion of the ocean to the magnificence of the mountains—was prompted by the fact that the rent in Venice kept going up exponentially, a 7 percent increase every year for 16 years. Then we discovered that in Desert Hot Springs, anybody could get a mortgage if they had a pulse. We had never owned a house before. Now we were ecstatic, owning our own home and a garage—even the car had its own room—yet we were simultaneously aware of the preposterousness of “owning” land.
We’d been coming here occasionally on weekends since 1985, so we knew about the intense heat, but we’ve learned to appreciate air-conditioning. We loved the isolation—nobody drives to Desert Hot Springs by accident—and the sparse traffic. There was only one movie theater here, and that building is now a church, but there are art houses as well as cineplexes in the more ostentatious cities, Palm Springs and Palm Desert, and on the way we pass streets named after such celebrities as Frank Sinatra, Dinah Shore, Bob Hope, Sonny Bono, Gerald Ford and, most recently, Kirk Douglas.
“You don’t have to be dead to have a street named after you,” Nancy said, “but it helps.”
We made the move shortly after I published the final issue of The Realist. My main obsession these days is working on a novel. Writing fiction enables one to have imaginary friends without being considered crazy. We were fortunate to have real friends who had already moved here. We met Lane and Carol Sarasohn in 1987, when Lane, Carol and I were writers, and Nancy shot mini-documentaries, for a short-lived series on Fox TV, the Wilton North Report. Now, with his two co-editors in Los Angeles, Matt Neuman and Larry Arnstein, Lane produces Ironic Times, a weekly online satirical publication, from his home in the desert.
One afternoon, as Lane was about to climb into the hot tub with Carol, he suddenly felt guilty about not having a regular job. He got dressed and went for an interview with the owner of the Desert Hot Springs Spa Hotel and the Miracle Springs Hotel, Mike Bickford, known by his employees as Mr. B. Within a few months, Lane became his chief assistant and troubleshooter.
Every month, I go with him to the Mayor’s Breakfast. After reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, everybody stands up, one by one, and introduces themselves. Here a chiropractor, there a realtor. My favorite is an undertaker who says the same thing each time: “I’ll be the last one in town to let you down.”
Lane later became General Manager of both hotels and is now serving his second term as president of the Chamber of Commerce, but before all that, he gave my first album, We Have Ways of Making You Laugh, to the hotel’s event organizer, and she arranged for me to perform at the Desert Hot Springs Chamber of Commerce officers and board of directors installation dinner.
According to the alternative paper, the Desert Post Weekly (which, strangely enough, is published by the mainstream daily, the Desert Sun), “In the extraordinary case of Desert Hot Springs, there is a convergence of five energy vortexes meeting in one place. In general, people are drawn to energy vortexes and power spots in search of enlightmenment and inner peace; they are attracted by the invisible force and its therapeutic effects.”
The paradox of my own peculiar spiritual path is that I’m an unbeliever who engages in constant dialogue with the deity I don’t believe in. As a stand-up comic, I always say, “Please, God, help me do a good show,” and then I always hear the voice of God boom out, “Shut up, you superstitious fool!”
Desert Hot Springs had changed its official slogan from “People, Pride and Progress”—no, it wasn’t a multiple choice question—to “Clearly Above the Rest,” and so it came to pass that the theme of the installation dinner would be Heaven. The waiters and waitresses would be dressed as angels. The stage would be overlain with a cottony white cloud, enhanced by a fog machine. There would be a blond angel playing the harp.
At 7 p.m., the salad would be served. At precisely 7:15, a clatter of pots and pans would be heard, and then I would be thrown out of the kitchen, directly into that heavenly scene. Oh, yes, and I would be dressed as the devil, who had been kick
ed out of heaven. (The devil is not merely a metaphor. A recent poll indicates that one out of every four Americans believes in the existence of the devil. Literally.)
I had rented a devil’s costume—red pants, shirt, bowtie, jacket, cape, tail and horns, with a golden three-prong pitchfork—all of which I donned in a bathroom for the staffers behind the banquet hall at Miracle Springs. I looked in the mirror, pulled my hair into a point on my forehead and said—to the image of Satan—“Please, God, help me do a good show.” I may have been the personification of evil, but for an instant it felt like God and the devil were in perfect harmony, until I heard the voice of God boom out, “You must be kidding!”
Then, while pacing nervously in the corridor, I overheard a woman say to her companion, “Right now, I would sell my soul for a massage.” I surrendered to the impulse, walked behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Just sign right here.”
I had never played a character before, but now I was really getting into the role. I proceeded to conduct a one-devil roast of various local leaders in the audience whose eternal souls I had previously purchased, revealing how I kept my part of each deal. I admitted my function in getting the president of the Chamber of Commerce re-elected and confessed that I had secured a green card for the police chief’s undocumented Mexican nanny.
A court decision had required the city to pay $3 million plus legal fees to real-estate developers who unsuccessfully attempted a low-income housing project, but I disclosed that, in order to raise the money, I had set up a meth lab for the mayor. Actually, in order to keep from going broke by paying the judgment, the city would later declare bankruptcy. However, the new slogan would not be changed to “Clearly Above the Credit Limit.”
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