Like any normal kid, I had tons of heroes. But I don't think I ever
had more of a hero worship-thing for anyone than I did for Elvis
Presley. Thus for me, Elvis' death -- and I think this is true for a lot
of people my age -- brought home the cruel and terrible truth that I was
finally and forever an (gulp) adult.
Unfortunately, by the time Elvis died, he'd ceased to be the King of
Rock and Roll and had turned into something just slightly to the left of
Wayne Newton. But that didn't make his death any less painful. The day I
read the headlines I drove home from work, got in bed and didn't get out
for three days.
But even after ol' El had kicked the proverbial bucket, I wasn't
alone. No, earlier I'd adopted two more brethren. Both around the same
time -- 1963. That year I was a miserable, lonely student suffering
through that horrible first year of college at San Francisco State.
It was my first time away from home, my parents and my pals. Yet two
things stand out from the bleakness of that depressing year: buying a
"Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" album, and the day that Muhammad Ali beat Sonny
Liston.
I can recall staring at Ali's picture in the paper as he gestured for
the fallen Liston to get up. It was exactly what the world didn't need
-- a crazy black dude who could kick butt and write poetry.
I tore out the photo and taped it to the inside of my briefcase. And
though I continued to spend most of my time alone, somehow I didn't feel
so lonely anymore.
As for Dylan, well, the cat was obviously a smartass punk, but unlike
today's punks, he was intelligent -- not to mention wonderfully nasty.
Heck, who could help but love a guy who'd kicked Phil Ochs out of a
taxicab with the rejoinder, "You're not a folksinger, Ochs. You're just
a journalist!"
But like Elvis, both Dylan's and Ali's career faded into the sunset
as the years slipped by. By the '70s, Dylan had become an arrogant,
hipper-than-thou prima donna. Meanwhile poor Ali was doing TV
commercials, waving his chubby fists at the camera and doing a
buffoonish version of the Ali shuffle.
Still, I wasn't ready to let my heroes go. No, I secretly hoped
they'd both make a comeback. That somehow, some way, they'd
redeem themselves. I guess in some strange way, I felt that our fates
were linked.
And perhaps they were. Because on one curious night we all met up.
It was a pretty black time in my life. My father was dying, and the
world in general looked essentially hopeless. I'd gone to a boxing match
one night, just to escape the house. I was sitting there when I noticed
a crowd forming around a man sitting ringside.
I couldn't believe it.
It was Ali!
I could barely watch the fight. Instead I sat there, incredulous that
Ali and I were in the same room ... together! When he got up to leave
during the semi-main event, I found myself following him up to the
lobby.
Oddly, when we got there, the place was stone-cold empty. It was just
Ali and me, alone in the lobby.
For what seemed an eternity there was a deathly silence. Then Ali
turned to me and said, "Hey champ, you got the time?"
"Uh, yeah ... it's s-seven thirty," I replied.
Ali didn't say thank you ... nothing. He just turned and walked
outside, where he climbed into a waiting limo. I watched the car until
it finally disappeared down the end of the street.
Then I just stood there for what seemed to be a timeless eternity. I
guess I was sort of in shock or something.
Muhammad Ali had spoken to me!
Muhammad Ali had called me champ!
I was too worked up to go home, so I drove over to the Palomino Club,
to hear some music. I'd been there awhile when I noticed a bunch of
people staring at this guy who seemed to be trying to hide inside this
gigantic Alaskan ski parka. It seemed quite odd, as it was a million
degrees inside the place.
All of a sudden I recognized the guy. It was Dylan! He was obviously
trying to be inconspicuous, but everybody was staring at him. Well, no
wonder -- that parka was totally ridiculous. It had the exact opposite
effect of a disguise.
As I watched people staring at him, I noticed how uncomfortable Dylan
was. And then all of a sudden, I felt something terrible ... something
you never want to feel for someone who you think of as a hero.
I felt sorry for the guy.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. Midway through the set, I got up
and left.
As I drove home, the air was thick with symbolism. Why had the fates
had it that the three of us should occupy the same geographical
locations on the planet on this night? Or, as the Jews would say, "Why
is this night different from all other nights?"
And then suddenly it was clear. It was time to say goodbye. Goodbye
to my father. Goodbye to heroes. Goodbye to the past. Time to leap out
into the void. That terrible void.
Funny, I'd always been so terrified of that leap, and when it came,
it was nothing at all.
Yeah, fate has weird ways of working I guess. Then again, maybe it's
got nothing to do with fate. I mean, I guess it's conceivable that the
whole thing could've been a coincidence. Sure, sure. I mean, heck --
it's not that big of a deal. That kinda stuff happens all the time ...
especially in California, right?
Yeah, sure. But you know what?
I don't believe it for a minute.
GOLDMAN HOOH HAH: I'm gong to do something slightly unusual here --
which is to take a moment to here hype some product other than myself.
It happens to be a film, er, I mean movie. (I hate the word
"film.") See, once upon a time I was a movie fan -- before they all
turned to crap. Anyhow, the film I'm speaking of is entitled, "The Sixth
Sense," It stars Bruce Willis and is written and directed by some cat
named M. Night something or other -- an Indian bloke who I've never
heard of (but am now a fan of).
The thing that was so wonderful about this film (and it also happens
to be the downfall of just about every film out there today ...
including the much vaunted "American Beauty") is that it doesn't EXPLAIN
everything to you. Each scene in this film is like a little tone poem.
Things happen. You don't quite understand why. This leaves you hungry
for the next scene, and the next. In contrast, most screenwriters
somehow feel they must move along from plot line to plot line. The
result of this type of writing is that somewhere around the middle of
Act Two, we've become bored (or else we've figured out the plot). True,
"The Sixth Sense" did screw up at the end by thumping us over the head
with one of those "tricky" endings, but that didn't take away from the
overall enjoyment of sitting through a film that actually lets the
viewer breathe. Moreover, the film's mixture of occultic subject matter along
with a very wonderful "small," human story isn't the usual heavy-handed
crap that hacks like Steven Spielberg and the rest of those yutzes call
filmmaking.
Bet you didn't know I was so astute on the subject of movies, huh?
Well, hey -- in addition to selling a script to Oliver Stone, your ultra-talented
columnist has also written and produced an indie film (what a guy!)
entitled, "The Bouncer." The only problem is that the film never came
out. However, you can read about it, as well as about me (pp. 490-492)
hobnobbing with Mickey Rourke and gangbanger/convicted murderer Sanyika
Shakur -- known to his friends simply as "Monster." (Shakur is the
author of the book of the same name.) So I suggest that if you want to
see this glorious piece of hype about yours truly, that you go out and
pick up the newest book by feminist author Susan Faludi entitled
"Stiffed: The Betrayal Of The American Man," published by William Morrow.
Though I may not agree with Faludi's point of view, one thing I'll say
for her: unlike the plethora of bimbos and bimbettes out there who
(laughingly) refer to themselves as "writers" (generally that means
they've penned a few magazine articles or perhaps interviewed a few
famous people and strung all the interviews together in a book that
nobody ever bothered to read), Faludi can actually write. First and
foremost, she's an excellent journalist, and she can turn a
phrase. I mean, not bad for a chick, y'know what I mean? Hey, thanks for
the ink Susan.
And while we're on the subject of hype, be on the lookout for three
new websites that are coming your way care of the creators of The
Tongue. In some order or other these sites
include www.phobiaman.com (dedicated to our hit cartoon character,
PhobiaMan -- the man totally crippled by fear and
anxiety. Phobiaman will be
followed in short order by our third site, www.supersnoopers.com. Due to
the unprecedented success of our hit series of Super Snoopers
books, this
site will be dedicated totally to your spying and snooping needs. In
addition to featuring the largest library of snooping books on the Net, the site will
allow you to engage in "live chat" with a licensed private investigator
and to find out the inside tips and tricks used to get that "secret"
information that is (allegedly) unavailable.
And lastly, we will be offering www.nudistcamp.com -- a site for
those of you who love to sit naked in front of your computers while
surfing the Web. (I actually bet some yo-yo has already done a site like
that). Joke! Joke ... friends and neighbors!
Despite Harsh Reality's increased presence on the Web (hey, I'm a
money pig, what can I say?) my advice to you is to limit your Web time
to a half-hour -- MAX -- per day. Moreover, you should only use the Web
to gain information. If you go online to be entertained, you're in
trouble. What I mean is, you've got better things to do with your
time, people! Like what you ask? Like watching reruns of The Eastside
Gang on TV ... like talking to fish (more on my fish obsession next
time). Like ANYTHING, man! I mean, this life is short, people, and
millennium or no, you're all gonna DIE -- and probably a lot sooner than
you think! So use your time wisely ... don't waste away your hours in
front of that stupid screen. Shut it down!
And on that happy note, folks, I'll say adios Ceeesco! Adios Pancho!
Adios all you Stu friends and enemies (keep them cards and letters --
and more importantly ... money ... comin' my way). See your sorry
heinies next week!