When I was growing up I didn't want to be Superman, Batman or the
Green Hornet. None of those guys. Nope, I wanted to be (Good God, am I
really going to admit this)? Perfectman.
Yep, it's true. I'm not exactly sure when it started, but I can
remember as far back as the third grade sitting in class and drawing
these faces on my notebook. It was always the same face; the profile of
a man with a straight, aquiline nose, well-set mouth, square jaw, steely
eyes, and blond hair -- with just a little bit hanging over the
forehead. I didn't know who he was at the time. It was only later that
I'd learn his identity.
Perfectman.
I didn't know much about Perfectman. I doubt if he was particularly
intelligent. But that didn't matter. He was perfect. And I wanted to be
him.
Alas, even at that early stage in life, it was painfully obvious that
I was not. All I saw when I looked in the mirror was my roundish face,
my Jewish nose and curly (make that kinky) hair. God, how I hated
that hair! I tried everything under the sun to make it normal, finally
settling on a highly suspicious (and extremely smelly) product called
Perma-Strate, which my poor mother had to travel to the Negro section of
Cleveland in order to purchase. Still, straight hair was an absolute
prerequisite for being perfect. So, off she went! (A mother's love for
their offspring -- no matter how neurotic or bullying -- never fails to
amaze me).
Then there were the clothes. Back in junior high, I strong-armed my
parents into buying me hundreds of dollars worth of these very
"in-crowd" shirts. Sir Guys, they were called. My closet was filled with
the bloody things. Of course, I continued to work on my hair, gunking it
down with Fitch Brilliantine, or even sometimes plain old Vaseline. I'd
pat it, push it, shape it ... and then, ever so carefully, I'd
pull down that little curl over my forehead -- just like Tony Curtis.
I remember one time this girl told me I looked exactly like Frankie
Avalon. Who was I to argue? The problem was that the girl --
Jordan Buck, was far from perfect herself. Come to think of it, she
looked sort of like Karl Malden. Oh, how poor Jordan pined for me! But I
was having none of it. I was, you see, in love with Cheryl White -- a
lovely young thing made up of equal parts Sandra Dee, Deborah Walley and
Darlene Gillespie (that's two Gidgets and a Mouseketeer, so you can see
where I was at).
All through school I kept up my quest. Studies be damned! My
priorities were firmly established. Being Perfectman was what I craved.
Oh, he was no longer the guy on my third grade notebook. In fact, his
face changed many times over the ensuing years ... though it was always
an approximation of the same guy. Elvis, Fabian, Ricky Nelson, James
Darren, Steve McQueen, Tony Dow (Tony Dow!?), Clint Eastwood ...
they all made their way onto the list. But no matter where the
ever-changing face wound up on the evolutionary scale, I never quite
matched up.
Ah, well. One of the (few) nice things about growing older is that
one becomes more and more comfortable ignoring styles, trends, looks and
fads -- which are, of course, all the guises of Perfectman. Sometime
during my late 20's I realized his hold on me was lessening.
Nevertheless, even today, he's not completely gone. Ever so often --
at the gym for instance -- I catch myself posing ... flexing my newly
blown-up biceps in the mirror and kind of smiling one of those
movie-star smiles at myself.
Yep. Old Perfectman ... still at work.
But the deal is -- you've got to give it up. Kick the sucker out of
your life. Why? Because he'll only cause you heartache, that's why. And
it's not an easy task, friends ... because everything out there
makes us want to be him.
But I've got a little tip for you. You say you wanna try and dump
Perfectman for good? OK, check this out. Just go down to the hospital --
any one will do -- and walk around one of the wards. Don't pick any
lightweight stuff. Hit the post-op or the cancer ward if possible.
Walk past the rooms. Stop and look inside.
Take your time. Nobody'll bother you. Listen to the moans and groans.
Check out the hollow-eyed people staring up at the ceiling.
God, look at all those tubes going into their orifices! Listen to the
rattles in the chests.
Hey, look out! You almost knocked over that old guy -- the one
shuffling down the hallway, lugging that catheter bag. There he goes.
Watch how slooooowly he walks. How every step is painful. And yet
you'd swear he's ... yeah, he is -- he's smiling. Almost
as if he's thankful for every step he takes.
Whoa! Hold up there. Not so fast. We're not leaving yet. Stick
around. Relax. You need to breathe in the smell of people dying.
Feel the death. You can, you know. Feel it flitting through the
hallway ... in and out of the rooms.
Smell it.
Inhale it.
Let it soak into your bones. ...
Had enough?
OK, let's get the hell out of here.
Listen, I'm telling you, it works. You're gonna walk out of that
hospital, out into the sunshine, and you're gonna look down, and you're
gonna thank the Lord that you've got all four limbs ... and if you've
only got three, you're gonna thank him for those! But the best
part of the whole deal is that the old Perfect Monster isn't gonna be
anywhere around. Guaranteed.
And that, my friends, is nothing short of a miracle.
CURMUDGEONLY UPDATE:
First, a big thank you to everyone who's supported me these past
months. Your e-mails telling me to "fight the good fight" (despite the
constant barrage of mails from the "unenlightened") truly do keep my
spirit uplifted. As for the rest of you ... those who curse me, who damn
my soul to hell ... those who write letters to my editor threatening
never to read WND again or to stop pledging money unless I'm banned
forevermore ... I want to thank you too! I'm not being facetious. You
see, it's you guys who really keep my coals stoked ... who keep the
fires burning. The more outraged you get, the more rancid your missives,
the stronger I get. So, have at it, mateys! I await your next volley
with great anticipation.
OLIVER WHO?
In answer to those of you who've asked about "Spy Vs. Spies" -- the
feature film that's being made of my undercover expose of the tabloid
industry ... unfortunately I really don't have much to tell you. All I
can say is that whenever my agent calls Phoenix Pictures (the company
releasing the film) they tell us that it's a "go" project. The working
title has been changed to "Tabloid." The story -- which originally ran
in Spy magazine -- was purchased by Phoenix at the behest of Oliver
Stone, who's attached as director and producer. At least that's what the
trades say. These guys don't tell me nuthin'! Once they handed me
the check, I immediately became some kind of pariah (I cried all the way
to the bank). Despite Phoenix and the Big O's efforts to keep me in the
dark, I've managed to get my hands on a couple different versions of the
screenplay (penned by some of those hotshot A-list guys) and, par for
the course, the writers have already managed to suck the heart and soul
out right of the material. So what else is new?
It is kind of weird being the creator of a story that has
turned into a major film and not being able to get any information on
the project. But hey, this is Hollywood, and the only meaningful word in
this town is ... "Next." You can be assured, however, that if I get any
meaningful updates (like that John Travolta has been cast to play yours
truly) I'll let you know ASAP -- being the shameless self-promoter that
I am.
MISANTHROPE'S CORNER
One last bit of self-hype and I'm outta here. My website, The Tongue
(www.thetongue.com) -- the Internet's First Official Muckraking Site --
is up and running ... but don't go getting all hot and bothered. All
you're gonna get when you go there is the opening "splash" page (which I
think is really cool). In the meantime, my gang of trusty cohorts and I
are working 24/7 to get The Tongue up and running. I don't want to stick
some half-finished thing up in front of the world, so please ... just
hang tight. A few tidbits: Coleman Luck -- creator, co-executive
producer and senior writer of such terrific TV series as "The Equalizer,
" "The Burning Zone," "Gabriel's Fire," and writer of the original
screenplay (before John Carpenter ruined it) of "Escape From L.A." --
has agreed to pen a column for us. Coleman is a true man of God --
perhaps the only Christian I've met who is truly deserving of the title
"spiritual warrior." His new column will run the gamut from an "inside
the biz" look at what it's like for a Believer to function within that
incredibly corrupt and immoral world known as "showbiz," to Coleman's
particular area of expertise -- supernatural phenomenon. In addition,
The Tongue will feature a highly eclectic array of columnists, from jazz
legend Jane Getz, to true-crime author Arthur J. Harris, to ex-LAPD
Detective Rick Grosvenor.
As I've warned you before, I'm breaking tradition with The Tongue, in
that it will be a "members only" site. That's right -- you're gonna have
to ante up if you want to get onboard. In fact, The Tongue may well be
the most "exclusive" site on the web, in that we're going to have a set
of guidelines as to who's allowed to join (one of them being an IQ
test). More on that later.
I want to thank those of you who've offered your services as
proofreaders and/or copy editors. I could still use a couple more of you
guys, so if you're up for it ... gimme a holler. I am also seeking a
cartoonist to do the pen and ink work and the lettering on a strip I've
created. This will be a paid position. Please send samples of your work
(one or two panels is fine) to [email protected]. Lastly, I will soon
be adding another book to my roster entitled: "With Malice For All:
Confessions Of A Curmudgeon." The book is a collection of my early work
-- columns, essays and articles from 1975 through around 1985 (when I
became a Believer). Besides containing some pretty sizzlin' stuff, the
book can be looked on as an example of how the Lord can penetrate the
armor of even the most hardcore atheist (i.e. yours truly). You can
literally see Him working -- at his own pace -- through the person of
the writer over the course of the years during which this collection was
penned.
If you'd like to check out the rest of my "stuff," (articles, books,
tapes and CD's) just click on the banner at the bottom of this page.
End of hype. End of sermon. Beginning of a curmudgeonesque (if that's
grammatically incorrect, I'm sure I'll hear from you) New Year. It's
gonna get weird this year, guys. (Frankly I'm looking forward to it).
Put on your spiritual armor -- because the battle is at hand.
Until next week. ...