by David Cross
Other Ways in Which Jews Can Utilize Current Technology to Get around God’s Strict Laws for the Sabbath
PERHAPS NO CULTURE ON EARTH HAS MORE TO GAIN FROM THE advancement of robotic studies than Orthodox Jews. Due to an unwavering belief in unchangeable laws that were established thousands of years ago when people were, by today’s standards, childishly ignorant, to put it generously, Orthodox Jews are handcuffed from living a normal life from sunup to sundown on the Sabbath, the most holy of days in the seven-day Gregorian calendar week. But the Jews are nothing if not savvy and have figured out numerous clever, conniving ways to get around Talmudic law, which is in part designed to show fealty and reverence to an almighty and at times petty, vindictive master. Some Jews figured out long ago that you could just pay the help (or a poor Palestinian neighbor) to switch on a light or cook your food for you. Some women even figured out how to look good on their wedding day, when your head is supposed to be covered, again, in a gesture to God, who presumably hates seeing hair grow out of a scalp. I’m sure God wouldn’t arbitrarily create this law, which some of his creations might deem petty, or silly. The brides figured out that by wearing a wig made of human hair, they can cover their head with a virtually undetectable replica of their real hair and still technically they are showing reverence to God. Ha ha! Take that, God! Jews 1, God 0! What else you got, big guy? Gonna try to make me live in a dirty house because I can’t clean it on the Sabbath? Fuck you! I’m presetting a Roomba. Didn’t think about that, did ya, when you were making your list of egomaniacal, draconian “laws.”
Forgot about man’s ability to progress into the industrial, then technological, age, huh? You say I can’t handle money on the Sabbath, but you didn’t say nothing about training my dog to. I can attach things to my dog with Velcro and walk him on over to the bodega across the street. Don’t test me, God. I got a million of ’em!
Beef with Jim Belushi
IT’S NO SECRET THAT I HAVE BEEF WITH JIM BELUSHI. AND I HAVE often used him over the years as my go-to utilitarian plug-in for any “lucky, marginally talented at best, annoying celebrity with douchebag tendencies” reference I needed in a comedy piece—whether appearing as himself in the semifictional, good-natured joshing of the Caldecott Award–winning “Cigar Corner” columns I’ve written or in a shout-out to his book, Real Men Don’t Apologize, in my universally disliked animated program, Freak Show. Oh, and also there was the time I went to his ridiculous, self-indulgent “blues” show in Martha’s Vineyard (that he had the audacity and outright shameless greed to charge forty fucking dollars for) and jumped up on stage a couple of times before getting thrown out of the club. You can see that on YouTube if you’d like. I’ll explain more about that later.
But David, why Jim Belushi, exactly? “What did he ever do to you?” you may ask. There are soooo many undeserving douchenozzles with inflated egos in Hollywood, why him? Why not Jeremy Piven, or Stephen Dorff, or whoever? Well, I’ve met both Jeremy Piven and Stephen Dorff, and while Jeremy Piven was a bit of a dick to me, and Stephen Dorff wasn’t a dick to me personally but rather to the valet guy outside of Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills after a birthday dinner for Ben Stiller, neither episode really warranted a lifetime of sarcastic japery. And really, when haven’t any one of us been a jerk to somebody before, whether intended or not? But my one, single experience with Jim Belushi was so noxious and unbelievably lowest-depths shitty that I feel justified for any cute, little, harmless piece-of-joshing fluff wherein I’ve mentioned him. And yes, there is an actual, real, honest-to-goodness incident that has driven my now very public scorn.
I’ve often been asked what the deal is, and time and time some more, I have patiently told the story. Sometimes at dinner or a bar, a couple of times onstage, but only when prompted—that’s been my one rule. I never told the story unsolicited. Until now.
Now, for the first time, I will put it out there for all to read and judge. Maybe I’m being too harsh; maybe I’m not being harsh enough. Regardless, here is the story. And again, all true. Not an ounce of embellishment or exaggeration. Also, let me say this: if you think my opinion of Jim Belushi’s work is undeserved, please get your hands on a copy of Homer and Eddie co-starring Whoopie Goldberg. It is one of the best/worst movies ever made, and Jim Belushi’s performance is pure, unintentional comedy gold. Trust me, it’s worth the hunt. Need a little teaser? Jim comically yet poignantly plays a grown man who’s brain damaged and on his own. A modern-day Candide, with Whoopie as his street-savvy Dr. Pangloss. Just watch it. Oh! And even though his character was born and raised in a tiny rural town in Arizona that he’s never left, he speaks in a thick Chicago accent. That must be one of those weird brain rewiring things that neurologist Oliver Sacks is always yammering on about.
Okay!! Here’s the story.
In 1995 I was given my first real part in a movie. The movie was called Destiny Turns on the Radio, and it starred Dylan McDermott and Nancy Travis. As you might surmise, Jim Belushi was in it as well. Now, I not only had zero scenes with Jim Belushi, but I was never scheduled to even shoot within the same couple of days as him, so the fact that I saw him at all was a bit of a lark. I should preface this story by describing my very first time on set. On any set, really. I had driven out to the set during the beginning of the shoot to meet with the wardrobe department. I entered the trailer to find one woman softly crying (as if it was the end of a bigger, deeper sobbing session) and another woman alternately consoling her and cursing some unknown “him” who wasn’t there. It was awkward and I kept my distance but made my presence known. I had never met these ladies before, let alone ever gone “to wardrobe.” They gathered themselves and were very sweet and apologetic. I said something to the effect of “no worries” and then asked what was wrong. In brief, and I am paraphrasing from a meeting from thirteen years ago, Jim Belushi had come to set, hated the outfits that had been designed for his character (they were supposed to be cheesy and “lounge lizardfish,” as he was the underhanded, small-time manager of a floundering small-time casino), and took it out on the wardrobe women, berating them and demanding that they (against what had been written in the script) get him designer suits. Prada, Armani, shit like that. In other words, the opposite of what the character would wear. Now, I wasn’t there for any of this, only the aftermath. And it was told to me by two women who were clearly still emotional about it. I couldn’t be sure it all happened the way they described. But after meeting Jim Belushi, I had absolutely no problem believing it. Okay, moving on.
It is now the last week of shooting, and we are in Las Vegas at the Stardust Casino shooting interiors. As it happened, the scene I was shooting that night took place in the same location (the floor of the casino) as Jim’s last scene of the whole film. As is much the case for every movie, I was called in much earlier than needed. I had already gone through “the works” (hair and makeup) and was in costume (a suit) and just waiting around with nothing to do but pick at craft services. I decided to play some blackjack while I was waiting for my scene to be up. I sat at a table across from where we were shooting but at a perfect vantage point to be able to see what was going on and when they would be finished and I’d be needed. Keep in mind that I had barely been on TV before so no one, certainly not this group of middle-aged and seniors from Oklahoma or wherever they were from, would ever recognize me, let alone assume I had some affiliation with the movie. I sat there playing silently, immensely enjoying everyone’s speculations as to what the movie was about. The most ridiculous ideas based solely on watching, from afar where you couldn’t hear anything, some people walking, then standing still for a moment talking, and then walking away. “I think it’s about a guy who works at a casino. Jim Belushi’s the star of it.” Not quite.
Anyway, after about ten minutes of this, the dealer, a woman in her early thirties or so, says to the table, “I’m gonna try and get an autograph from him [Jim Belushi]. I have an eight-year-old son who’s very sick and he’s a huge Jim Belushi fan.” Now, this is
the one part you might have some legitimacy issues with. “What eight-year-old is a huge Jim Belushi fan?” you might say. But I swear to you that that is what she said. It was at this point that I spoke up and told her that I was working on the movie, and that I would get her the autograph. She told me her son’s name was Michael and how grateful she was. “No problem.” I cashed in, walked over, and stood to the side waiting for them to wrap the scene. After about ten minutes, “Cut! And that is a picture wrap for Jim Belushi!” The crew dutifully clapped as is the custom. I waited for this to die down, and as he started to walk away, I approached him. Once again, keep in mind, we’ve never met. “Excuse me, Mr. Belushi?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you see that woman over there?” I pointed across to the table. “Well, she’s got an eight-year-old son who’s sick, and he’s a huge fan of yours, and she was . . .”
Jim cut me off, curtly saying, “Jesus, I thought you were gonna get me a blowjob.”
The next three seconds are difficult to describe. I got very angry but tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but no, there’s no way he misunderstood me or I him. I could feel the blood in my face and my heart racing a bit. I took a big breath and then with a measured tone and overenunciation repeated myself. “No… she has a sick son who . . .” Jim cut me off again, this time angrier and even more dismissively with, “Jesus Christ, you’re worse than my second wife,” and walked away. I stood there. A little shocked, but that’s perhaps not the best word to describe what I was feeling. Anger, incredulity, disgust. Those are better words. And I knew that I was going to have to go back over to the mom and tell her that I couldn’t get the autograph. Who was more gracious than she should have been.
So there it is. A real, true-life tale of Hollywood assholeness. I still get riled up when I tell the story. I shake my head anew in disbelief at how vile he acted. I didn’t see him again until the 2005 Emmy’s when he came out to present an award. I shouted “The Belush!!” as loud as I could, twice, hoping it would get picked up on air. It did not, but my friends nearby had a gentle yet cautious laugh.
So from this precious moment in time forward, enjoy some faithfully reproduced “Cigar Corner” columns culled from the back pages of Cigars! magazine with the edifying backstory in mind. Now, you’d have to be either retarded or the lawyer for this publisher to even ask if any of these are true, but in the spirit of being fair to retarded people who are reading this book, and/or lawyers, the following are not true. I repeat, none of these things really happened (that I am aware of). Anyway, here’s the first one:
Cigar Corner
NEWSFLASH! “CIGAR CORNER” NAMED ONE OF THE TOP 100 CIGAR columns by Cigar Column Weekly!!
Hello, Pumpkin Pies! It’s your humble cigar reporter, with the latest dispatch from the front lines of the cigar-smoking war, though it’s not really a war.
Yours truly just got back from La La Land, and you’re never gonna believe what happened. As you may or may not know, I am trying to secure the film rights to the video game Madden 2002 Football. I think it would make an excellent movie (I see John Goodman as the all-knowing voice of Madden), and since all the kids love movies based on video games, I figure this is like an idea made of gold and then covered in diamonds!
I met up with my agent, Ms. Delphine Santiso, an ex–child star from the View-Master series “Yellowstone Vacation” at that fun-time burger place ThumpWumpers. We were having dinner (when at ThumpWumpers, you simply must try the Onion Squealers!) when who walks in but… you guessed it… the Belush! “Oh shit!” I choked out. “It’s the B-Dog hisself!”
I excused myself from my table, walked over to “Da Man,” and pulled up a chair. I think he might have been embarrassed because he had just farted (I think), and that’s probably why he told me to get the hell away from him, but I told him that I didn’t care about his farting. He looked at me with that patented “I’m a miserable human being” look of his. “Uh-oh,” I thought. “He’s in one of his moods.” That’s when I produced from my portable humidor a Torquemada #4 and sparked that baby up for him. Well, that changed his tune. If there’s anything the Belush can’t resist, it’s a cigar, or a passed-out babysitter! And since I didn’t have the latter…
I started to tell him about how I want him to play the voice of Madden in my movie, and he stared at me like I had a couple of “Santiago Numbnuts” hanging out of my ears.
I reminded him of how he knows me, and just as he was about to grab the maître d’… Don Johnson walks in! He was with a teenage girl who, I guess, was his daughter, although she was Asian, but she kept calling him “Daddy,” so who knows. Wow! The Belush and Don Johnson! If this is Heaven, then don’t wake me up from my dream where this is Heaven!
After presenting Don with one of my prized Cuban Piffles, I asked if I could sit with them to discuss some “bidness.” Don dismissed his daughter from the table and leaned in close.
“What is it, man? I’m hurting bad. I’ll take anything.”
The Belush started laughing at Don, and then the laughing became a wheeze, and then the wheeze became a little bloody, and some of it got in Don’s good eye. So while Don went to the bathroom to wash up, Belulu took the opportunity to remind me that I had promised him the role of the voice of Madden.
“No problemo, mon amore,” I said. “I was thinking Don could be the voice of ‘The Guy Who Tells You That It’s Halftime.’ He’d be perfect!”
Beluminator thought about this for a second, and then a big grin crept onto his face. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, waved it in front of Don’s daughter (who I later learned was named “Miss Saigon”), and said, “Well, looks like Daddy’s been gone awhile. Maybe he doesn’t know how to treat his little girl.” Then the Belush accidentally dropped the hundred-dollar bill in Miss Saigon’s lap. And I guess she was allergic to the money because when Belush went to get it back, she stiffened suddenly and gasped before looking down and softly weeping. I guess the Belushman felt bad for her allergies, even though he was smirking, because he then took her hand and pulled her up and away from the table and was nice enough to tell her about a job he had for her.
As they were walking out I yelled out to him that I would send him the information about the project. He couldn’t hear me and just left. After the maître d’ gave me the bill and informed me that Mr. Johnson had to go to the hospital for skin abrasions, I paid up and rejoined my agent at our table. I gave Ms. Santiso her diabetes shot and went into the kitchen to start washing dishes, as neither one of us had any money to pay for Mr. Belushi’s meal.
“Oh well. C’est la vie,” I said as I sucked on a “Clownish Brown” and scrubbed a saucepot. “C’est la vie.”
Oldies but Goodies: Delicious Chestnuts Dusted Off and Collected Here for Your Reading Pleasure
Some of these are things I posted on bobanddavid.com, and some are reprints from different magazines (and one very particular website). I am going to pretend that these have all been requested by different folks representing eleven different
countries in three continents! Here you go.
Hey everyone,
I was lucky enough to get my hands on an advance copy of James Frey’s newest book. It’s a soul-searching and no-holds-barred look at his life since appearing on the Oprah show. This shit is crazy! What a tough life this guy has had.
Excerpts from the Galley Copy of James Frey’s Latest Memoir, Lesson Learned
From Chapter 1:
I left the Harpo studios in Chicago in a state of shock. When I accepted Oprah’s invitation to go back on her show and tell my side of the story, I didn’t think that I would be treated so unfairly. I felt as if a couple of angry skate punks who “didn’t like my attitude” ambushed me. It reminded me of the time I was ambushed by a bunch of angry skate punks who “didn’t like my attitude.” I had awoken from a nineteen-day bender to find myself floating facedown in a canal in Amsterdam. I came to with a knife in my chest and a tattoo on my left nipple which m
ysteriously read: “100% Goth!!” I blurbled something in Arabic to a passing man on his bike, and he was decent enough to stop and fish me out. After drying myself off, I raped him and stole his bike. I regret this behavior now, of course. I knew it was wrong then, too, but that’s what makes me such a monster. Or rather made me such a monster. That and all the drugs and alcohol I was addicted to. I’m better now, thanks to rehab. But that’s an entirely different true story, which has already appeared in my last book, An Unverifiable True Remembering.
Anyway, after getting myself a breakfast (consisting of a fifth of Popovitch grain alcohol and some dirty socks I found in a garbage can), I set about looking for an explanation as to why I was in Amsterdam and where I could get my next “fix man.” I lurched forward toward the Leidseplein to see if I could find Bruno Ganz, who always did right by me when I was in town. I made sure to catch all the projectile vomit I could into an empty Burger King bag that I carried around with me for that express purpose, for I knew I would be hungry later and would spend every coin I had on my “next fix.” I had perfectly lurched no more than ten feet… or thirteen miles? Maybe it was thirteen miles. I can’t remember exactly. This is a memoir, and that’s French I believe for “memory,” which, let’s admit, is a little clouded by all the “drugs” and “alcohol” that I was totally addicted to. Anyway, I was walking along the plaza with my now useless leg. Wait, did I mention that I was so fucked up that I accidentally (?) let a transit bus run over my foot and didn’t realize it until later that day when a young Amsterdamian child pointed to it and started to cry? Well, that did happen. I just remembered it just now, so… yeah.
Because of my now missing foot (I had it amputated without any anesthesia. I did this so that I could save $50, which I could then spend on getting a “fix” for my latest “high.”) I was having a difficult time keeping my balance. Despite my best efforts I found myself bumping into a group of five gutter punks sitting on a curb. One of them got up and threw a kettle of boiling water in my face. They were making tea, as I recall it. I said, “Hey now, what was that all about?” Which was difficult because the top layer of my face skin was peeling off. One of them mentioned not liking my attitude and I remember that setting off some crazy interior switch deep, deep inside me. Maybe it was because of my shitty worthless life or maybe it was all my self-loathing at not being able to make something out of myself despite graduating summa cum laude from the Sorbonne and almost being nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize for my work in the Congo, but when that switch switched it was as if my veins were drained of blood and filled with super-strong adrenalized juicy juice. I got an odd and calm look in my remaining face, stared the ten of them straight in the eyes, and said, “I’m bad, you motherfuckers. I’m a really bad man. I am so jacked up on alcohol and various speeds, like crystal meth, cocaine, ice, snowcaps, bobbyrocks, po-pos, jaggersticks, glass monkeys, and even two grams of pure Canadian sizzledots, that I can barely see straight. If you’re not careful I just may eat your eyeballs with my rotting teeth (I had “meth mouth” from all the alcohol I had been drinking). Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a date with a bottle of 100 proof Bukowski.”
