3. If your designated driver is Kelsey Grammer.
4. If you have to paint the words "don't panic, you're at home" on the ceiling above your bed.
And finally, you really know you have a drinking problem if, when you go to buy bathroom floor tile, you press it to your face to see how comfortable it would be to sleep on.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Violence in Media
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but there's a lot of violence in the media today. And I think we all know the core issue that we must confront as a nation. Without a doubt, Jimmy Carter must be brought in to mediate between the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote, because this Sicilian thing has got to stop.
In an increasingly permissive and shockproof society, where taboos are being shattered like a bank of TV sets at Graceland during a Robert Goulet special, we have all become more desensitized than Rush Limbaugh's ass after an eighteen-hour bus ride.
This is an issue that concerns me deeply, because I, personally, am a victim of media violence. Every movie I'm in, I get killed halfway through. I'm like the guy on Star Trek in the red shirt.
Now, to listen to the frantic bleatings of social reformers and family-values-mongers, you'd think that media violence is some new, demonic invention and before that pesky Quentin Tarantino came along we were skipping through an idyllic G-rated wonderland. Well, guess what? From cave drawings depicting the hunt to tribal war songs to a gory little tome called the Bible, the portrayal of violence has, in one way or another, been a part of human discourse ever since we stopped dragging our knuckles on the ground and started using them to give each other noogies.
But we're hypocritical about violence in the media. We're looking for someone to blame if our kid goes bad, and the media is a defenseless target for the clusterfuck of self-righteous rhetoric that passes for intelligent debate these days. We all seem to want our children to watch nothing but nice, positive stories so that they'll be so suffused with love, they'll go traipsing through the world, handing out big flowers to strangers like the summer of love hippie kids who always placed a daffodil in Jack Webb's gun barrel on Dragnet. The truth is, TV isn't the biggest influence on your kids. You are. There's probably more real emotional violence and bad vibes at the average American family dinner table than in an entire season of Highlander, not to mention better acting.
Mom and Dad, look, your television is not a babysitter. It can't rack up long distance calls talking to its boyfriend who's away at college, it can't eat the frozen Wolfgang Puck pizza you were saving for the De La Hoya pay per view, and it can't have a six-year fling with a Kennedy. It's just a machine.
I don't even know if I really buy that there's a connection between violent TV and violent behavior. I mean, I grew up watching a steady diet of Mannix, Krazy Kat cartoons, and Combat, and I'm so nonconfrontational, I make Deepak Chopra look like Oddjob.
Besides, it seems to me, as far as adults go, we gobble up TV violence like it's an ear and we're a mentally unbalanced boxer.
Just look at the titles of the sickening shows that prey on our morbid curiosity: When Animals Kill, Brushes with Death, and one of the worst of all, Circus of the Stars. And, come on, when you watch Circus of the Stars, aren't you rooting for Richard Mulligan to fall off the high wire, ricochet off Tootie from The Facts of Life, and then crush Screech?
What about the local news? In reporting violent crime, the local news comports itself with all the dignity and responsibility of Moe, Larry, and Shemp locked in a haunted house.
And network news shows aren't much better. The big three all feel the ratings pressure, and know that if they shovel some bloody chum onto the airwaves, Americans will swim over to their little pond and gorge themselves on the carcass. I mean, do we really need Dateline NBC on four hours every night, combing through every detail of some horrible act of violence like Columbo with obsessive-compulsive disorder? And while we're on the subject: The only thing stiffer than Stone Phillips is Richard Simmons watching him.
Hey, this is all very simple. Forget V-chips, forget government intervention, forget blaming it on the networks and get back to basics. If you don't like what's on, you have the power. To all my fellow men out there lying in bed watching TV, take a look down ... You see that thing you're holding in your hand? Well, let go of it, pick up the remote control, and watch what you want.
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Hype
Boy, the whole Barney phenomenon has tapered off a little, hasn't it? Do you remember the hype on that creature when he first emerged from the tar pit?
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but if the media doesn't stop trying to bludgeon me into believing that their designated Flavor of the Nanosecond is about to be the Next Big Thing, I'm going to have to put on my lambada shoes and kick some Yahoo Serious ass.
From politics to sports to show business, the world has airbrushed away all expectations of quality and instead relies on-ballyhoo instead of substance. If P. T. Barnum were alive today, he would be spearheading a campaign for truth in advertising.
Now, what exactly is hype? Well, hype is the glittering rhinestone on the jumpsuit of mediocrity that catches our eye and makes us think, "Hey, maybe the Spice Girls don't suck." It's the triumph of style over substance, predicated on the sad truth that most of us, if the gift-wrap- ping on the outside of the box is fancy enough, won't notice that inside there's nothing but a big pile of shit.
Why are we so susceptible to hype? Well, it's simple really. We're stupid and lazy. We want to be led. We want to be told what is desirable. We want to be flattered. It is amazing how little care a weed needs to take root in the fertile rot of the compost heaps that are our brains. Are you with me on this, folks?
Hype is everywhere in our society, on every level. It starts at the top with our promoter in chief, the man from Hype—Bill Clinton. Clinton has done more for spin than Brian Boitano with an inner ear infection in a fucking centrifuge. You know, if Clinton blows any more smoke up my ass, my sphincter is going to sue Philip Morris.
And it's not only politics. Just look at the way they hype bad movies in their ads by editing the reviews. It's ridiculous. Like the reviewer would say "Whoever made this movie should be put in a gas chamber" and in the ad the quote is simply "... a gas!"
Another example of how hype has worked on me— Matthew McConaughey. I love him. I absolutely love the guy, and I have no idea who he is. I haven't seen one movie he's been in, yet I think he might be the finest actor of our generation. You know what else I know? I know that he likes four-wheel-drive vehicles, he has a golden retriever, and he likes to get out of L.A. to clear his head. I have no fucking idea how I know all this about a guy who I don't know, but I just think he's fantastic. I really do.
And you know I don't want to hear another word about the Internet or the Web or chat rooms or flame wars or information superhighways or any other trumped- up jag-off computer term.
I mean, "surfin" the Net? How is sitting at your computer for hours on end banging keys like Lancelot Link's piano player remotely connected to surfing?
Now, last year there was a celestial load of hype surrounding Mars. While I'm all for a certain amount of scientific exploration, this is way out of hand. Mars is. Is it really important to anybody except a bunch of Buzz Lightweight guys from the A.V. Squad? I mean, we didn't learn anything that's going to improve our lives in any way. We've spent billions of dollars so a robot could hump rocks that a bunch of geeks argued whether to call Snag- glepuss or Secret Squirrel. I mean, what is the big deal? You know why it's the red planet? It was embarrassed by all the undeserved attention.
Then there is Dennis Rodman. The Sistine Ceiling of hype. Dennis Rodman wouldn't be the star he is today if it weren't for hype. He's always been a solid player, but come on, being the leading rebounder in the league is like playing first chair tuba in the Des Moines Pops.
You'll always work, b
ut you're not gonna get laid. Okay? Unless, of course, you dye your hair to resemble the muted rainbow hue of bad meat, sport so many tattoos that Maori warriors cringe at you, and get so many body piercings that you whistle eight different tunes when you ride a bike.
Mike Tyson's suspended in the U.S., so how soon do you think before Don King starts advertising his comeback fight in another country? What do you think this angle's going to be? "The Bite on the Isle of Wight"? "Can You Hear in Zaire"? "Lobes in Manitobe"? Huh? It's coming.
To try and keep from falling victim to advertising hype, ask yourself this simple question: Should I really care what kind of beer frogs recommend?
Listen, just accept the fact that hype is here to stay because we live in an increasingly narcissistic universe that everyone believes they're the center of.
It's that sort of self-involvement that even has people like Liz Taylor and Michael Jordan coming out with their own fragrances. Hey, big deal, we all have our own fragrance, they're called farts. We all just don't put them in a bottle. Okay?
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
The American Education System
Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but today's American educational system, quite frankly, ain't doing so goodly or goodish. This country's public schools couldn't be more poorly funded and badly directed if the secretary of education were Ed Wood.
If you're lucky enough that you can afford a private school, then much of what follows probably won't make sense to you, because unfortunately the majority of the problems are in the public schools, the ones called P.S., which is appropriate because they're treated as an afterthought.
Our public school system has become a giant monolithic substitute teacher, an overworked and underpaid civil servant with an impossible load on its back and a huge "kick me" sign on its ass. And if our public school system isn't a giant monolithic substitute teacher, then my name isn't Peter Goesinya or Dick Hertz or Phil Mc- Crackup or Joe Pendulous Balls.
Well, anyway, this decline in our school system is having a discernible effect. I can tell that my audiences aren't quite as educated as they used to be. You know I like to salt my remarks with references to the best of Victorian literature, but I'm just not getting the response I once did with such pithy observations like "Christ, looking to Clinton for moral leadership is like Samuel Johnson getting style tips from Lord Bulwer-Lytton." You know, if our high schools don't start doing their jobs, I'm going to have to resort to something desperate, like trying to get laughs just by saying the word "motherfucker."
It seems to me that if we don't step up to the blackboard and solve the problems facing this country's educational system, we might as well use the chalk to draw an outline around the future of America's kids.
You know, maybe I'm not the best guy to be addressing the subject of education. Frankly, when I was in school, I generated more C's than a Spanish couple reaching simultaneous orgasm. But the subject of our public schools hits very close to my heart. For years I have been earnestly contributing vast amounts to the California school system. That's right. I'm a lottery player.
In days gone by, schools used to be orderly one-room red houses where kids would eagerly learn how to use impressive phrases like "in days gone by." But today schools are replete with acts of violence that make what Tyson did to Holyfield look like Richie Cunningham giving one of the Hooper triplets a hickey. Yes, the gun, the ultimate hall pass. Anybody remember when the only time lead flew in school was when somebody threw a pencil?
Violence and intimidation are such accepted parts of school for many kids these days that when the teacher tells students to raise their hands, just out of force of habit, they raise both of them.
But I guess we should just be thankful that teachers dare to tell children anything nowadays. You see, being a teacher these days is not limited to the boring educational stuff anymore. Noooo. You get to do so much more than just teach. You're a one-man SWAT team, confiscating an AK-47 here, defusing a lunch box pipe bomb there.
And then you're so burnt out by the time you reach the apres-school parent/teacher meetings, you explode and tell some parents that they can take the college money they've been saving and buy themselves a cigarette boat because the only college their little Slappy is going to has the word "beauty" or "clown" in front of it.
And as far as a retreat from the maelstrom of malevolent and misdirected mayhem, what do the teachers have? Well, they have the teachers' lounge. Oooh, what a lush oasis that is. A twenty-by-twenty Serbian bunker strewn with furniture the cast of Trainspotting would pass on that's filled with so much smoke, you'd swear Marge Schott just elected a new pope.
But can you blame teachers? We're sending them into battle unarmed. In many instances it appears that schools have softened the curriculum so that no one feels like they're left behind. And that depletion of expectation in the end works against the children. Too often now, teachers have to grade on curves that would make Anna Nicole Smith look like Olive Oyl.
But the curriculum is fixable. Obviously the biggest part of America's educational problem is that after school kids go home to parents who are more involved in their tan than they are in their child's education. Hey, folks, it's not a fluff-and-fold situation where you drop off the kid and zap, you pick him up twelve years later and he can carry on a conversation with Stephen Hawking.
If you're not happy with the way your kids are learning, it might be time to do a quick check on the home environment to make sure you're providing them with optimal conditions. For instance, does your teenage daughter put her kids to bed at a reasonable hour so she can study?
Of course, that's just my opinion, I could be wrong.
Bad Drivers
A new law in Arkansas makes it illegal to drive under the speed limit in the left-hand lane. Yeah, like there's a fucking fast lane in Arkansas.
Actually, I think Arkansas should be applauded for such a commonsense driving statute. Because our roads, quite frankly, have turned into an imbecilic cyclotron of disparate particle brains supercolliding into one another at the speed of litigation. Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here, but every time I go for a drive nowadays, I get the feeling that every other motorist on the road has made me their unwitting partner in some bizarre murder-suicide pact.
And I speak from experience. I drive ninety miles each way to and from work, and the sad thing is, I live only four miles away.
But I'll tell you, the next time I do my taxes, I'm allowing for depreciation due to wear and tear on my middle finger.
Now, I know that at least part of the reason there are so many bad drivers in L.A. is because mass transit just isn't an option here. I don't know about you guys, but if you've ever had to wait at a bus stop out there, you're painfully aware of the need to get your own set of wheels to avoid sitting next to the guy who wants to show you the human thumb he has in a Baggie.
There are also too many tourists driving around southern California. And you know a tourist with the full collision waiver on a rented Chevy Lumina is like a kamikaze pilot who just got a Dear John letter.
Hey, I wouldn't trust half the people in L.A. behind a potter's wheel much less a steering column. All right? Just once I'd like to be able to run down to the quiki mart without having to swerve into a ditch trying to avoid Stanley Tucci's ex-publicist steering a Porsche with his knees while he's facedown in a laptop surfing the Net for instructions how to operate his newly installed passenger side hibachi.
Driving in L.A. you get cut off more frequently than Teddy Kennedy bar-hopping on St. Patrick's Day, and the flow of traffic on the 405 makes Strom Thurmond's urethra look like Splash Mountain.
Here's a message to every Los Angeles driver who's ever been in front of me at a light trying to make a left turn—GO! Just go! You can make it! You've got a mile and a half till that car gets here! A five-hundred-pound guy on roller skates using only the power of a slight breeze to propel him could make it, so just fucking GO!
Anyway, no wonder people can't drive, look who taught them—the high school driver's ed instructor, who was generally whoever drew the short straw between the football coach, the typing teacher, and Gladys, the chainsmoking cafeteria lady with the lazy eye.
What probably doesn't help matters is that drivers' licenses are almost as easy to get as People's Choice Award nominations. You know, if you've ever been in line at the DMV and eavesdropped on some of the Franz- Kafka-by-the-way-of-Charlene-Tilton conversations taking place, you begin to wonder how people manage to transport themselves without producing more casualties than there are in the director's cut of Reservoir Dogs.
But not all drivers are dangerous. No, that would be too easy. In addition to the dangerous ones, we have the sub-species Mobilus Moronus, the annoying driver. Hey, I don't care what you do in front of me. Just do it fast, okay, Chim-Chim?
And what about the people who transverse the entire Gadsden Purchase with their turn signal on? What do you think that clicking sound is, assface? What do you think that is? The gnashing of vertebrae in that tattered pipe cleaner you call a brain stem? Obviously, the same primal instinct is at work here that compelled our ancestors to keep the fire burning at all times lest it go out, because no one but the shaman had the magic to bring the fire back to life, and if they switch off their turn signal, what if they make it want to go on again? They'll have to go all the way back to the dealership and beseech the merchant of the iron horses to impart the secret of the turn-signal switch to them.
Ranting Again Page 4
