Is It Just Me or Is Everything Shit?

by Steve Lowe

  CONDOLEEZZA RICE

  Oil giant Chevron loves its former executive Condi Rice so much, it named an oil tanker after her. How truly awful must you be for the oil industry to like you that much?

  When news of this homage caused controversy, the company quietly renamed the ship. The name they chose instead was Condoleezza Rice? Oil-Loving Secretary of State Who Oversees the Invasion of Middle Eastern Countries to Privatize Their Oil Infrastructure for Use by U.S. Oil Giants? Never Heard of Her! We Did Once Know Somebody Called Condoleezza Rice, But Not That One.

  Everyone always goes on about Condoleezza Rice’s supposed “cleverness.” But she herself rates George W. Bush as “someone of tremendous intellect”—so the bar has been set quite low here. Let’s hope she never gets a job as, say, a college professor, because that could blow her mind.

  Rice did attend the University of Denver at the age of fifteen—but it was only to study the piano. And that is not, let’s face it, a proper subject. Neither does it prepare you for high office: No one’s going to look to Billy Joel in a crisis, are they? Not unless it somehow involves capturing Captain Jack or drinking loads of wine.

  RICH, THE

  The sumptuous invitation cards read:

  From the château steeped in history,

  We enter a world of maharajahs and mystery,

  A gilded palace from Bikaner brings,

  A lavish feast fit for a king.

  The “king” was steel magnate Lakshmi Mittal, the richest man in Britain and the third richest in the world. The “château” was the finest in France, Vaux le Vicomte, on the banks of the Seine. The “lavish feast” was the June 2004 wedding of Mittal’s daughter Vanisha, which lasted for six days. India’s finest chefs were flown in, and Kylie Minogue performed; there was a live Bollywood extravaganza about the happy couple. Fireworks exploded in every direction, lighting up the whole of Paris.

  The feast certainly was “lavish.” Over thirty million dollars’ worth of “lavish.” We think the point they were trying to make was: “We—let’s not beat around the bush here—are the dog’s very rich bollocks.” Mittal couldn’t flaunt his wealth more if he flew over the poorer quarters of Mumbai in a helicopter shouting through a megaphone: “You, yes you there—I am rich and you are poor. Look at me, up here, the rich bloke in the helicopter. Yes, me—Mr. Moneybags here. Do not look at you, who is poor, look at me, who is rich.”

  Fans of the rich, the kind of people who want to press their nose against the Mittals’ glass and marvel at the shiny objects—people such as the author of the recent book Rich Is Beautiful—often invoke the so-called trickle-down effect, whereby the great wealth of a tiny minority, despite them apparently spending it on gilded palaces and lavish feasts, is quietly and invisibly percolating down to the rest of us. We’re not sure how: Maybe they hide coins down the back of single mothers’ sofas?

  Whether their blood is blue or red, the one thing that unites everyone rich is, of course, really, really, really hating taxes. You’d think that as all the super-rich’s super-riches are generated by the whole of society (and with the trickle-down effect turning out to be a little, well, “inefficient”), governments might risk slightly offending the delicate sensibilities of the rich by inquiring if, after all, they might like to, you know, pay some fucking taxes?

  Even a tiny increase would raise sums so large the IRS would run out of carrier bags to put it in. That way, the wealth could go directly into things like education, culture, health care, that sort of thing; steering it ever so slightly away from bank accounts in tax havens and sweetmeats for a clique of rapacious, parasitical, reductive, generally unpleasant shits.

  If only it were that simple. George Bush has found that, although clearly they’d love to tax the rich, it is a physical impossibility. Even if the rich didn’t “move abroad,” there still wouldn’t be any surplus billions heading toward society’s coffers. Bush explained: “The really rich people figure out how to dodge taxes.” Blair claimed that if top-rate taxes were raised, “Large numbers of those taxpayers—probably the wealthiest—would simply hire a whole lot of new accountants to do this and that.”

  Compared with, say, using military might to recast entire societies in parts of the globe where everyone hates them, this man considers that closing a few tax loopholes would be “too difficult.” Suicidal jihadists? Bring ’em on.

  Accountants? Accountants doing “this and that”? To the boats! To the boats!

  KEITH RICHARDS

  Keef is the original punk. The everlasting renegade pirate outlaw riffmeister. In a world of fakes, the Stones’ legendary guitarist is the real deal, the keeper of the flame. Except, erm, he’s a pampered old jet setter and a very silly man who was recently beaten up by an errant coconut.

  The road of excess is meant to lead to the palace of wisdom. In Keef’s case, it has led to the palace of tottering about playing the same riff for thirty years with a scarf tied around your head. Is that wisdom? Shouldn’t have thought so. Wise men don’t snort their dad’s ashes.

  But millions believe Keith has lived the rock ’n’ roll dream so they don’t have to. For them, personal nirvana would be to party with Keef back in the day. Even though partying with Keef back in the day would generally have involved watching someone fall asleep and drool and then wondering if he’s started turning blue or if that’s just the light. The rock ’n’ roll thing to say is that the Stones are “his band,” that Mick is just his singer. In which case, why does this renowned renegade let “his band” tour the world sponsored by T-Mobile? Or cancel a string of UK dates because they were worried about paying more taxes? That certainly doesn’t sound very rock.

  Keef is the fearless spirit who said: “If you’re going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.” But, in living memory, the only “authority” Keith has kicked with two feet is the Ramblers’ Association. In 2002, he won his long-running battle to move a footpath farther away from his West Sussex mansion—even though it was already separated by a thick hedge and a moat.

  Thankfully, Keith’s lawyers took on the Ramblers on his behalf. Nevertheless, Keith prides himself on being A Bit Tasty—and, to be fair, he is fairly dangerous. But only in that he’s an addled old soak who insists on carrying concealed knives. While drunk. During sessions for the 1983 Stones album Undercover, the guitarist would emphasize any point by swishing a swordstick. People said this was “cool” when what they should have said was: “Come on, Keith. Don’t be such a schmuck all the time.”

  ROADTANKS—SUVS, 4X4S, ETC.

  Market researchers are good. The ones employed by the U.S. car industry found that people who buy SUVs are insecure, anti-social fucks who couldn’t give a beggar’s testicle about their fellow man: And who’d have worked that out on their own?

  Here’s what Keith Bradsher of the New York Times reports the U.S. auto industry says about 4×4 drivers: “They tend to be people who are insecure and vain. They are frequently insecure about their marriages and uncomfortable about parenthood. They often lack confidence in their driving skills. Above all, they are apt to be self-centered and self-absorbed, with little interest in their neighbors and communities.” No way! If pushed, the head of General Motors would say they are “fucking turds.” Probably. He’d certainly think it. Probably.

  4×4s are just a way of saying: “My family’s got a big cock.” They are a marvel of science and technology, though: When we were kids, they only had 2×4s, and they were just pieces of wood. You couldn’t off-road on them, not even in Alabama. So things have certainly come on in leaps and bounds since then.

  Amazing, science and technology, isn’t it? Last winter, we gave some friends toe warmers. They’re little sticky gel packs you stick to the outside of your socks and—get this!—even though they are cold when you take them out of the packet, stick them to your socks and they go all hot and keep your feet toasty. Now, how does that work if not by sorcery? By science and technology,
that’s how. Or it could be sorcery. We don’t actually know.

  ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  “I really loved Maid in Manhattan” is a phrase one never hears. Or “I really loved that film Wimbledon.” This is because romantic comedies are commissioned on the basis of a six-or eight-word premise, which then everyone who is involved neglects to expand into an actual script. Com does not ensue. Nor does rom.

  The king of such films is Matthew McConaughey, a man who can smirk quizzically in posters next to Jennifer Lopez or smirk quizzically in posters next to Sandra Bullock. He was recently seen smirking quizzically in posters next to Sarah Jessica Parker for Failure to Launch: She’s falling in love, but he still lives with his parents! Oh, and he’s a boat broker, hence the title—it’s applicable both to his familial situation and to the boats that, as a boat broker, he brokes. It’s almost like literature.

  Here’s Matthew McConaughey on the difficulty of finding the right motivation for his romcom characters: “Sometimes, in a romantic comedy, the male is sometimes the foil—meaning do I pull to the left? Do I pull to the right? Which way do I go? I don’t know what to do!”

  Coming soon: Staying Away from the Herd. Wealthy socialite Jennifer Garner is smitten after meeting Matthew McConaughey at a high-class masquerade, but then she discovers he’s not a Wall Street banker but herds cattle. Can this relationship ever be a dung deal? You’ll be laughing till the . . . well, you know.

  McConaughey on the chemistry between himself and leading ladies such as Kate Hudson, his co-star in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: “If you’ve got chemistry, you kind of know what’s going to happen, but you enjoy going along for the ride . . . We have similar senses of humor, man. Sometimes I do things that she doesn’t think are funny, but she’s laughing because I think they’re funny while sometimes she’ll do things that I don’t think are funny, but I’m cracking up because she thinks it’s funny.”

  Coming soon: She’s So My Dad’s Date. Matthew McConaughey plays the son of aging womanizer Sean Connery. There’s trouble in the family when son falls for father’s new girlfriend, played by Lindsay Lohan. Age-gap comedy extreme!

  And Sarah Jessica Parker on what was surprising about working with Matthew McConaughey: “You know what surprised me is he writes a lot. I didn’t know he was a writer. He writes a lot. He really works on the script a lot. He really thinks about it. He breaks it down. I probably would have—if you’d given me truth serum before the rehearsal process—probably thought it comes pretty easy to him, which it does at the same time.”

  Coming soon: My Big Fat Racist Wedding. Starring Matthew McConaughey as a black lawyer betrothed to white girl Mandy Moore. When is he gonna find out that Daddy’s in the Klan?

  S

  “SASSY” SONGS ABOUT BODY PARTS

  You’re playing with your bits,

  I’m playing with my bits,

  Ooh baby, I betcha wish you were playing with my bits,

  Instead of your bits . . .

  My bits, my bits, my bits, my bits, my bits, my bits.

  That sort of thing.

  ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER

  •July 3, 2003, pre-campaign appearance in LA: “I told you . . . I’ll be baaack!”

  •Summer 2003, campaign trail: “By the time I’m through with this whole thing, I will not be known as The Terminator . . . I will be known as The Collectinator!”

  •September 14, 2003: “Davis and Bustamante . . . have terminated jobs. They have terminated growth. They have terminated dreams. It is time to terminate them!”

  •September 17, 2003: “I know that on October 7, we will recall Gray Davis and say, ‘Hasta la vista, baby!’ ”

  •September 24, 2003, during televised campaign debate to opponent Arianna Huffington: “I just realized that I have a perfect part for you in Terminator Four!”

  •October 2, 2003: “When I get to Sacramento, I will immediately destroy the car tax. Hasta la vista, baby! To the car tax!”

  •August 31, 2004, Republican National Convention: “One of my movies was called True Lies! It’s what the Democrats should have called their convention!”

  •August 31, 2004, Republican National Convention: “In one of the military hospitals I visited, I met a young guy who was in bad shape! He’d lost a leg, had a hole in his stomach—his shoulder had been shot through . . . Do you know what he said to me? . . . He grinned at me and said, ‘Arnold . . . I’ll be back!’ ”

  Did you see what he did there?

  SELF-EXAMINATION COLUMNS

  “Hmmm . . . have you noticed that no one eats avocados anymore? Wow, think about it a second—it’s true. That’s amazing—no one eats avocados anymore! We all decided at exactly the same time. Isn’t that weird? Or maybe some people do eat them . . . they are still on sale in most places, after all. Anyway! Do you ever get a funny feeling in your left leg? Do you get that? . . .”

  The essential skills of the modern columnist rarely overlap with old-style journalism. No more going outside and meeting people, checking facts, or any of that passé nonsense. And at the same time, no need for a blog’s timely commentary. No, just make a big sandwich and start examining your own self. Go deep, because when exploring the self, you simply can’t be too self-centered. There’s no code of conduct to abuse when it’s your own privacy you’re invading. That would just be like abusing yourself.

  But writers can’t just write down whatever flickers across their consciousness. Okay, they can. But they also need a gimmick. One successful figure currently produces a weekly treatise focusing solely on fingers. Going under the title “Can You Digit?,” a recent missive went: “Hmmm. That nail needs cutting. Look, this one’s growing faster than the one on the other hand. Unless I nibbled that one some time after I last cut them all . . .”

  Then there was “Everyone I’ve Ever Spanked Over.” This was followed up with “Everyone I’ve Never Spanked Over,” which was pages of the phone book typed out. That column immediately boosted newsstand sales by an estimated 20,000 a week.

  A competing title, inspired by such successes, employed another writer to explore the random sounds he could make with his mouth. Called “Sounding Off,” it started: “Clickclickclick. That’s nice. Babbety-babbety-babbety-bab. Not so sure about that. We’re not getting anywhere here. I know—ratatatatatat! ratatatatatat! ratatatatatatat! Yes, I likes it!”

  Of course, nobody has yet to top the grandfather of this art form, Larry King. Though his USA Today column ended in 2001—in celebration of his ninety-ninth birthday—his unique, tangential brand of batshit crazy remains the self-examining columnist’s brass ring. Each week, King would offer up random superlatives along the lines of, “Had dinner with Ann-Margret last week and let me tell you, she is still beautiful . . . For my money, TV doesn’t get better than Chicago Hope . . . I’ll go out on a limb and say food is delicious!”

  SERVING SUGGESTIONS

  Have the makers of hummus, say, ever received a letter complaining that there was no parsley included inside? “The label clearly depicts a parsley garnish atop the tasty chickpea-based Greek dip. So where the shitting hell is it, you robbing pack of thieving bastards? Is it customary for supermarkets willfully to cheat their customers in this way?”

  It seems extremely unlikely. Yet there are always two words found on every scrap of food packaging to guard against such an eventuality: SERVING SUGGESTION. They may be small, but they’re always there. Like people expect a jug of ice-cold milk to be included in their cereal packet. Even though that would represent a major spillage hazard—which nobody wants. Or a single cherry tomato in their pot of sour cream and onion dip.

  The serving suggestions are not only dumb, they’re woefully unoriginal. Good Friends cereal is always—always!—served in a clean white bowl. Why not, just once, show an illustration of the oaty cereal having been dished up into a bowl of another color, or into another kind of receptacle altogether: like lots of tiny walnut shells or a pair of c
hild’s rubber boots? Now, that’s a serving suggestion.

  SEX TIPS

  Some people are so expert at sex that they become “sexperts.” Very much leaders in the field of how to use one’s bathing suit areas, these people inhabit a world of nonstop sensual erotica. They really know about genitals.

  For any willing recipient of the awesome wisdom of a “sexpert,” “sex tips” will inject your sex life with such unbridled naughtiness that any passing Bangkok whore would be moved to widen her overpainted eyelids with fearful fascination. Some of the most common “sex tips” include the following:

  •Breathe on each other. As one of you breathes out, the other breathes in, so you inhale each other’s breath. Breathing—it rocks!

  •Cover each other’s legs in sealing wax. Hey, it’s not for everyone, but don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Waxy, isn’t it?

  •Don’t underestimate the erotic potential of the elbow. Find out what you can do with yours and before long your love buddy will be dragging you upstairs as soon as you walk in the door.

  •Lather up each other’s pubic regions with shampoo and make amusing shapes. Laughter is a great way of creating a sexy atmosphere!?!?

  •Stuff each other’s mouths full of cheese—then lick each other all over. You’ll be amazed at the new sensations you both experience.

  •You’d be amazed how talking can get your partner feeling horny. Try reading aloud favorite passages from The Aeneid. Trust us . . . phew!

  •During penetration, why don’t you both imagine you are soaring through the clouds on the wings of a giant swan? If either one of you can perform a convincing swan’s call, so much the better!

  •Oh . . . just, you know, new positions and that. Put your legs in funny places, that sort of thing.

  SHOPPED-UP GAS STATIONS

  It’s like pulling off the freeway for a wee-wee and ending up in one of those airport departure lounges that are one huge duty-free shop so you are fine if your needs are served by perfume, Scotch, and chocolate truffles. But if you are after a bread-based snack, you’ve got to join a line for the next hour or so to be awarded a stale croissant.