While people have started to revile Tiger, and consign him to being another entry on urbandictionary.com, I’ve actually begun to like him more. I assume that about 90% of celebrities are spoiled sociopaths with absolutely no conception of basic cause and effect, much less abstractions like personal responsibility. In fact, that’s what I like about a lot of them.

Now, I don’t like that Tiger cheated on his wife, or blew thousands of dollars on his escapades in Vegas. I certainly don’t like that his poor wife had to find out about all of this by inspecting his cell phone. But I do admire Tiger Woods’ confidence. He is, at the time of this writing, married to one of the most beautiful women on earth. This is a simple, widely-accepted, scientific fact. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that pure sunlight curves around her because it doesn’t want to face its own ugliness. I’ll freely admit that my own plan, in case we ever cross paths, involves a large dog-suit, a basket, a little bit of luck, and a note that details how I’m “hungwy” and “free to a gud howm ©”

Well, Tiger Woods looked at this and decided that he could do better… 16 times. He was disastrously wrong, of course, but that doesn’t mean you can’t admire the man’s moxie. And frankly, he continues to impress me, as I watch his official apology. I’ve bolded the take-home points, but read carefully anyway, folks. There might be a quiz afterwards.

Things to take away from Tiger Woods Apology Conference:

· Always wear khakis when you apologize for something like this. I’m not sure I see the connection, but I haven’t won several Masters tournaments either. Just remember that it’s key to look like you’re doing a fake newscast for your 8th grade civics class when you’re addressing the issue of how many creepy pelvises you’ve recently been in contact with.

· His wife’s name is pronounced EE-lin, and not EH-lin, like I originally thought. Or, very possibly, he’s the one pronouncing it wrong, because he forgot it about 3-4 Hooters waitresses ago. Either way, he’s saying it with confidence.

· When you’ve done something stupid, the best way to look good is to take on too much responsibility. What he did wasn’t especially admirable, but Tiger’s acting as though he was busy putting a fire out at the animal shelter, and just wasn’t fast enough to catch the giant globe that fell off the top of the Daily Planet before it landed on a school bus.

· “I convinced myself that normal rules didn’t apply.” Think about what golf really is. My theory is that when you’re married to a supermodel, endorsed by multiple companies, and personally richer than some countries because you happen to be some kind of savant at wearing collared shirts/bonking things, then it’s probably safe to say that normal rules don’t apply. Sh*t, gravity might not even apply. But it’s nice of him to say it anyway.

· Always take the high road: When he started to say “I ran through” I thought he’d finish with “this many bitches,” and hold his hands really far apart. Then he’d sort of nod knowingly at the audience, and maybe raise his eyebrows. Instead it was “the rules that a married couple should live by,” which was sort of a letdown, but probably the wiser of two choices.

· Visual placement is important. I’m really enjoying the close-ups of how disappointed his mom looks. I bet she grabbed him by the ear and gave him quite the lecture. And I don’t know the stern-looking frumps on either side of her, but they seem like very solid choices to me. It reinforces the message that he did something wrong, but doesn’t present him with any new temptations. It’s the same theory behind placing the fruit juices prominently on the snack table at AA meetings.

· Some things are best left unsaid: “It’s not what you achieve in life, it’s what you overcome.” Tiger once heard this and believes it’s true. I like to think that it was from a really sleazy chick with an orange tan, and she was pointing to the giant dollar-sign belt holding up her snakeskin pants. But he doesn’t have to tell us every last detail.

· In a move clearly calculated to minimize danger, Elin is absolutely nowhere to be seen. There’s any number of reasons why she isn’t there, but my guess is that Tiger was worried she might love him so much that she’d just start slamming his head into the podium until she turned it into borscht. Sometimes, the line between affection and money-stifled, importunate rage is almost indiscernible.

· Deciding to just get it all out on the table, Tiger goes on to talk about other accusations he’s faced – specifically, when he was accused of using performance-enhancing drugs. But when was that? And what the hell would you use them for in golf? I’ve taken a look at some of history’s greatest golfers, and as a rule, they look as though somebody put Jabba the Hutt on a forklift and then repeatedly dropped him into dumpsters full of sweater vests and stupid hats until something stuck.

· I wanted to make a Buddhist joke about Tiger’s mom somewhere in here, but thought “Hey, that’s racist.” But then Tiger brings it up at the 10:24 mark, and it turns out that not only did she teach him Buddhism, but that he’s practiced it for most of his life. Also, I know that yoga and Buddhism aren’t precisely the same thing, but there’s a sexy “downward dog” joke somewhere in all of this, and I just can’t seem to find it. Maybe I should be the one apologizing.

· “I. ask you. To one day. Find room in. your heart. To believe. In me. Again.” His speech writer has obviously told him to go slowly, and pause meaningfully. I’m not really on board with this, to be honest. This entire apology could have taken five minutes if Tiger hadn’t decided to think and read in slow-goddamn-motion. Are his speech cards written in some sort of elementary code? He sounds as though some mean-spirited geneticist decided to create a hybrid dumb five year old/crash test dummy and then taught it to read by dropping a box of thesauruses on its head.

[1] As a comedy writer, I have to admit this is pretty proves the theory of intelligent design.

That’s OK, because 99% of the movies that are supposed to challenge the viewer are the same smug lecture from on high that deigns to inform the unwashed masses that things like racism and war are bad. Therefore, if I’m going to stuff a Fanta™ bottle filled with gin down the front of my jean shorts and pony up $8, I’m perfectly happy putting it towards watching a hero serve the public good by committing as much spectacular property damage as possible.

I like that the directors of dumb action movies can keep a perfectly straight face when the explanation for their hero’s fantastic abilities includes phrases like “martial arts,” “advanced science,” or “bonked with a magic rock.” It’s all part of the unspoken intellectual contract between the director so lacking in self-awareness that they’d actually make such a movie, and the viewer with enough time and personal history as a latchkey child that they’re willing to watch it.

Unfortunately, the movies coming out these days don’t even seem to make an attempt at explaining the massive plot holes and paradoxes they present. There’s barely even any talk of slipping on an enchanted banana peel or getting a lapdance from a radioactive stripper. And the villains are uninspired goons that wouldn’t stand a chance against a particularly hot cup of coffee, much less a proper superhero. The match-ups are terrible, the story-lines can’t even charitably be called bare-bones and… you know what? Just between you and me, I think the magic is going out of the relationship.

Here’s just a few examples of what I mean.

Spider-Man 4: I’ve seen all of the Spider-Man movies, and I’ve done it despite the fact that Tobey Maguire might be one of the most useless actors alive today [1] . I like to think that says something about how much time I have on my hands my level of commitment. But even I blanched and sucked air between my teeth when I read that John Malkovich has been cast in the upcoming sequel, as a villain called The Vulture [2].

The Vulture is an elderly man with wings super-glued onto his shoulder blades, and his primary superpower is the ability to fly. That would be incredible for somebody like you or me, but in the superhero world, flying is like being able to dunk on a 4 ft. Playskool hoop. Almost every hero can at least fly, and none of them finds it necessary to look like their mother had an affair with the mascot from KU. It’s like director Sam Raimi cares less and less with each movie:

* In the first movie, the bad guy could fly, he had super-strength, he blew up buildings with his missiles, and he had a untreated personality disorder.

* In the second movie, the villain was a husky, shirtless middle-aged man wearing a trench coat in the middle of summer. But when you added his intelligent, vaguely sexual, evil metal tentacles and a complete lack of self-respect, you had a fairly functional super villain.

* In the third movie, the bad guys were a) a guy made out of dirt, and b) Topher Grace. Sure, the dirt man could grow in size and bonk things, but his greatest weakness was water, and it’s practically impossible to take a super-villain seriously when they can be defeated by children playing near a fire hydrant. And it’s even more impossible [3] to take anybody seriously when they’re Topher “Sh*tshoes” Grace [4].

All of that is still better than giving somebody’s grandfather the power of flight and telling them to go scare the hell out of an entire city. Spider-Man doesn’t really need to anything in this case, because The Vulture is just a minor threat to air traffic controllers and, possibly, the owners of new BMW’s, depending on his fiber intake. This won’t even be so much an ass-kicking as a great chance for a YouTube video. …Is it even legal to hit an elderly person in a chicken suit?

Iron Man 2: I know – another comic book movie sequel. The fact that I haven’t yet made it to a movie without a number in the title sort of obliquely proves my point. In the first “Iron Man,” we met a brilliant, spoiled inventor who was forced to realize the horror of his own creations when he was captured by a militant terrorist organization. In keeping with his newfound, peaceful ideals, he built a metal suit and turned himself into a walking, death-dealing special effect from Ozzfest. After escaping, he built himself a stronger, streamlined fire truck-colored suit and used it to mete out justice according to his new ideals. An unfortunate side effect of this decision, however, is that absolutely everything within a 1 mile radius of him usually gets destroyed. From what I can tell, Iron Man’s philosophy seems to be that crime hasn’t really been stopped until you’ve collapsed a highway overpass on top of it.

The villain in “Iron Man 2,” unfortunately, won’t take nearly that level of effort. Look at him:

Now I’ll grant that he looks menacing. He’s willing to use what seem to be whips made out of actual lasers. He’s also angry, obviously spends a lot of time brooding, and has way too many tattoos to bother with sissy things like shirts. If he were fighting (or, more likely, robbing) you or me, he wouldn’t even need laser whips. Or regular whips. He wouldn’t even have to take his belt off and snap the ends together or anything; he could just sort of point at me and grunt, and I’d already be apologizing about how “my wallet might smell faintly of urine, sir, as it seems I’ve had something of an incident. You’re really a very intimidating gentleman [5].”

Unfortunately for both of us, though, I’m not Iron Man. I’ve provided a picture, though – let’s compare the two, shall we?

This just isn’t going to be a fair fight. Mickey Rourke is bringing a lot to the table, but he has overlooked some crucial elements – the most important of which is a helmet. He also seems to have made the questionable decision to forego any sort of body armor. Threatening the world while shirtless is admittedly badass, but it also leaves you vulnerable to things like mall security with tasers, catching a nasty chill, or bullies that aren’t afraid to twist a nipple until it just pops off like a cheap radio dial.

Iron Man, on the other hand, has covered his entire body in futuristic armor that doesn’t look as though it was slapped together by stoned lift workers at AutoZone. Mickey Rourke simply doesn’t stand a chance, and we all know it. This is going to be nothing but one long, disturbing, ass-kicking in a movie that was just supposed to be fun; in short, it’s going to be this century’s answer to the disturbingly brutal boyfriend/girlfriend fight from “Footloose.”

Sherlock Holmes: I understand that there’s a certain market pressure to “update” and “modernize” concepts. Words like “reinterpretation” are flung around casually; when they were first conceived, they may have meant something, but now they’ve simply become codified Hollywood-speak for “We’re going to add a rap-rock soundtrack and/or parkour.” Modernization is a cure-all to make everything less boring by making it 6 times dumber, and frankly, I’m surprised we haven’t already seen a bass-thumping, martial-arts reinterpretation of David vs. Goliath [6].

[1] I really don’t know why I limited it to “actors” and “alive today.” I could literally take a shovel, raid the nearest grave, put a funny hat on the corpse, and I’d have already achieved something more worthwhile than “Seabiscuit.”

[2] I was initially surprised he would take on a role this dopey, but then I thought to myself — Oh yeah. ConAir.

[3] I don’t like to think about the fact that I have a college education when I write things like “even more impossible.” Next up: “impossiblest.”

[4] I don’t know much about morality or the existence of an absolute good, but something deep inside me just knows that waiting for Topher to use a port-a-potty and then tipping it down a steep slope is the right thing to do.

[5] If I bring any two things in the world to high-stress situations, it’s a) a wonderful sense of manners, and b) something I like to call “the octopus reflex.”

[6] Actually, the more I think about this, the further it moves away from “joke” and toward “probably going to happen.”

“What the heck,” grunted my fifteen-year-old son, Greg. “I mean, seriously, we won’t even be here for Christmas, we’ll be in Dubai. What’s the point?” His left nostril curled upwards, dragging his upper lip along with it as he shrugged his right shoulder, his body language alone expressing the utter futility of hauling four boxes of holiday paraphernalia out of the bomb shelter (yes, we Swiss are equipped for such charming eventualities) and up the stairs to the living room. My fledgling Christmas cheer vanished in a horrified little gasp. Worse, I think I aged ten years in three seconds.

Aghast, I turned to my seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia. “No tree! No tree? We’ll be the ultimate Christmas losers!”

Olivia shrugged. To her credit, her attitude was slightly less offhand about project Christmas 2009, but she nevertheless still agreed that Greg had a point. However, Dubai or no Dubai, she couldn’t imagine Christmas without a tree. “Yes, we’ll definitely be losers,” she sighed, trudging off towards her room, looking over her shoulder to give me a regretful little smile that meant, “I’d love to help but I really don’t have time.” Poor Olivia; at the moment her time really is precious. She’s doing her final year at school, gearing up to the International Baccalaureate and is up to the tips of her eyelashes in work.

How about Mr. Prescott? Would he rise to the festive occasion and endure a couple of hours of cheesy Christmas music in my charming company, decking plastic pine-needles?

As soon as he cottoned onto the subject of our conversation, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, glanced up at the ceiling and sauntered downstairs, whistling a tune that doesn’t exist. Minutes later I found him stretched out in front of a James Bond movie.

I stood in the doorway with my hands on my hips. “Joyeux Noël!” I fumed, which is French for “get your cute little derrière into the bomb shelter and help me carry those boxes upstairs.” Well, it isn’t really; Joyeux Noël means Merry Christmas. But isn’t it the fuming thought that counts?

A few minutes later I could have been in (solitary) business. Instead, I sat down with a cup of tea and a Hobnob and pondered the joys of Christmases past. I then listlessly prepared dinner and, once my work was done, promptly went to bed.

It seems hard to believe that only twelve months ago the idea of decorating the tree was greeted with whoops of glee. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating the degree of glee previously expressed; my offspring’s 2008 response was more along the lines of “oh, ok, we’ll help, but only if we can listen to Coldplay instead of Haydn’s Messiah.” Which is fair enough; as it happens, Chris Martin does it for me too.

But here’s what’s troubling me: up until last year, decking the halls was still a joint effort, a family affair. (Not that Mr. Prescott has ever really been creatively involved in the actual decking process; his expertise lies more in the field of dealing with the inevitable collateral damage: putting boxes away, cleaning up broken baubles, and extreme vacuuming.)

How quickly they grow.

When I sat down yesterday evening in our as yet undecorated living room, my mind wandered back to Olivia’s first Christmas. I remembered how she wriggled along the floor blowing bubbles, all blonde and chubby and gorgeous in her navy blue romper suit with the penguin on the front. I remembered Greg’s first Christmas, picturing him so teeny-weeny at two weeks old, deliciously adorable in his red velvet Father Christmas suit that played “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” when you tickled his tummy. I remembered icy, push-chair outings to the local garden-centre where my babies would gaze in wonder at the huge, magical Christmas display. I remembered carefully hanging the wonky kindergarten baubles so lovingly made by their podgy little hands. I remembered going bonkers year after year over terminally tangled Christmas lights, trying to convince the kids that I really didn’t need any help. I remembered it all, and I got all emotional.

Seventeen Christmases, gone in a flash…

Everyone always tells you that children grow up too fast, but it’s not until you wake up one day and discover they’re too grown up to get excited about decorating the Christmas tree that you realize just how mind-boggling “fast” actually is. Not that my kids are utterly blasé about Christmas; they both still love all the seasonal trappings and trimmings. It’s just that they’re beyond prancing around the coffee table, singing along to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.” They have more pressing things to do. The problem is: I liked prancing around the coffee table with them. It was brilliant!

So this morning, all alone, I set my iPod to a cheesy Christmas playlist. I turned up the volume, and then went to work assembling our artificial tree. I strung decorations and thought of all those noisy days when Olivia and Greg were little children. I relived it all like a giant patchwork of mini-movies, but I didn’t get weepy, I embraced it.

In fact, I spent two wonderful hours singing daft Christmas songs to the dogs at the top of my voice. As usual, the fairy-lights were terminally tangled, but this year I didn’t attempt to untangle them for more than a couple of minutes. Instead I chucked them in the rubbish, jumped into the car, headed for the shopping centre and bought new ones. When I got home, I wound them strategically around my tree, making sure they shone on the decorations Greg and Olivia had made as little children. Then I lit a fire, made myself a cup of coffee, and flopped onto the couch to admire my handiwork. On the stereo, Michael Bublé promised to be home for Christmas.

We won’t be home for Christmas this year. But we’ll be back soon afterwards and I know we’ll all be glad to walk into a house with a tree. It doesn’t matter that within a few days we’ll probably be heading up to the mountains for New Year, because we’ll all be pleased to see it when we come down again. Nor does it matter that, before we know it, Christmas will officially be over and we’ll all be moaning about having to take the darn tree down again!

Basically, at the end of the day, I know we’ll all be far happier remembering 2009 as “the year of the pointless Christmas tree” rather than “the year we just couldn’t be bothered!”

It’s possible that you’re the sort of well-adjusted individual that has never considered anything of the sort. If that is the case, then you’re either a) a cultural rarity, or b) a timeless, peaceful monk with a toothless smile – in which case, I would appreciate it greatly if you would teach me your indomitable martial arts, because I absolutely will not misuse them to further my own unsubtle sense of “good times.”

Being none of the above, I’ve thought a lot about meeting myself. I have the sort of ego that lets me seriously contemplate things like “How great would I be in person?” without any sort of chemical enhancement. And I ended up surprising myself a little. I’ll show you.

“Would we agree on things? “

This is why everyone wants a copy of themselves in the first place, isn’t it? We all want somebody who would get things the way we get them, without all the tedium of explaining, convincing, and threatening to withhold sex for a few weeks [1]. It would be amazingly easy to have somebody agree think that the same people are assholes, that the same TV shows are awesome, and that, as a matter of fact, not peeing for 2 whole days so that you can write the first three paragraphs of Moby Dick in the snow is an accomplishment, godammit.

Do Not Want

If this whole magical clone thing were to go down, we’d get about half of what we wanted. Sure, your copy would have the same vices, desires, and tastes that you do, but you’d also both be in the tenuous position of reviewing every single thing about yourself. Observing and interacting with another you would be just about the quickest and least gentle means by which to strip away all of your pleasant misconceptions. After all, we live in a society comprised of individuals that, on average, don’t have the self-awareness to feel bad about making things like Twilight, Akon, and goddamn Twitter [2] economically viable concepts. Hanging out with yourself for more than an hour would be the emotional equivalent of finding Freddy Krueger using your toilet when you go to brush your teeth at night.

Which leads me to my next important point…

“Could I kick my own ass?”

If I had to, I would guess that this is one of those “boy” questions. Nevertheless, it’s a vital one, because – at least in my case – it’s an issue that would come up pretty quickly. Similar opinions and classic lit-oriented urination only go so far.

Simply try to imagine the sheer number of things you don’t realize that you do or say. It’s very possible that your breath consistently smells like an outdoor lavatory during mango season, for example. Sure you’re funny at cocktail parties, but those perfectly-timed bon mots about the economy mean nothing when you have the sort of laugh that makes bystanders think somebody’s waterboarding a donkey. Combine that with the fact that the person the least obligated has to put up with your sh*t is you, and it’s inevitable that unpleasantness could arise.

The main problem with fighting yourself is obvious: they’re just as good or bad at fighting as you are. They’re just as strong, and just as willing to hold up their hands and surrender, right before squealing like a frightened sow and trying to bite you on the ear. And hell, you know they’re going to do it, because it’s exactly what you’d do.

I’ve thought about it from pretty much every angle, and there’s really no clear way to win. I honestly think it would come down to a matter of environment: who’s closer to the whiffle bat, or the garden hose, or the partially defrosted chicken breasts on the counter [3].

In the end, there’s no clear winner. You won, but you also lost. It would be cathartic, though, and fun.

If this sounds depressing, then you should be comforted to know that, at least half-way through, I and I would start laughing our asses off. We wouldn’t stop of course, and it would go on until we were too tired, bruised, or wised-up to continue on. But I think it would take something like that before we could be sickeningly cheerful pals that we were meant to be.

“Would I share with me?”

I want a lot of things, and only the good stuff for myself; I also know that isn’t necessarily nice. I would hate to have to split my car. I’d love to split my rent, but I’d also like to know that when I go to the bathroom, it’s different and, in some small way, special [4].

I would get twice the value out of all the clothes I bought – with the crucial exception of underwear, in which case each me would be an island unto myself. It would be great to split a car with myself because we’d never begrudge each other the chance to drive, and we’d agree on music. We’d never snipe at each other for driving too fast or slow, and we’d agree that pulling over for a Happy Meal is an indulgence that need not be judged, or even discussed.

I would be my own perfect alibi. After all, how could I be herding an musk ox into the living room of a guy who wronged me and subsequently feeding it an entire box of Ex-lax, when I was at the bowling alley? How could I possibly have knocked out my sworn enemy with a brick and tattooed “balls here, please” on their forehead when I was enjoying the merry-go-round at the fair? “Sure I had motive, officer. Lots of motive,” I’d say. “But without opportunity, you pigs don’t have a case and you know it.” And then I’d put my sunglasses back on and smile, because that’s what you do when you’re an outlaw like we would be.

I also feel I’m the sort of goon that would enjoy riding a two-seater bicycle with myself. I really would.

My friends, though, have enough trouble with just one of me, I think. They like me for my bizarre advice and my absolute willingness to taunt the animals at the zoo. But two of me would get tiresome quickly. Sure, it would be fun at first, but you can only make so many references to Queen in one conversation before it’s too much. And, as I’ve learned, you can throw so many rocks and half-finished juice boxes before you have a full-blown gorilla riot on your hands. It’s a delicate sort of balance.

Ultimately, I feel it would be a doomed effort to fit two of anyone into one life. It’s just a matter of time until you find something you aren’t willing to compromise on, something that’s simply yours, beyond all concept of fairness.

dum dum dum

See, I have this girlfriend, and just between you and me, I’ve sort of got a thing for her. And I’ll tell you, being with her while knowing I wasn’t with her is the sort of horrible, double-edged, “Twilight Zone” sort of proposition that I don’t really enjoy thinking about. Being part of some bizarre, perfectly isosceles love triangle is something I don’t have the emotional equipment for. Knowing how I feel about her, it’s impossible to imagine that another me wouldn’t feel the same way.

Now, she’s not the only thing, but she’s by far the most salient example in a life that I’m finding is filled with them. So maybe it’s a good thing, after all, that we don’t have the twins that we aren’t precisely asking for; we simply haven’t considered all of the logistics, the possible crime sprees, and self-knowledge that we almost certainly aren’t ready for. Maybe it really is better not to defy both quantum physics and a U.N.-backed ban on human cloning for the sake of some ideal companionship and just move forward. You were just going to end up chasing them around with a waffle iron, and you’ll probably forget all about it in five minutes anyway.

[1] If I’m being honest, this last one has never really worked, but it’s still a threat I make constantly – even to people I’ve just met.

[2] The fact that “to tweet” is worming its way into the modern lexicon makes me sigh so hard my ribs creak like a scary door in a Disney movie.

[3] I’m something of an unconventional combatant.

[4] I’m told I attach an inordinate amount of important to my bathroom time.

[5] We’d have to make a lot more food.

After his untimely death in 1994, I gave Bill a well-deserved rest. I caught the odd re-run or magazine article but it went pretty quiet on the Goatboy front. A couple of years ago, I felt it was time to revisit the man who described himself as “Chomsky with dick jokes.” I raided my brothers DVDs and old videos and strapped myself in to laugh at the world anew. Back in the day, being with Bill was special: you got something that everyone else was missing. This may have been smart-arsed and pretentious, maybe, but the joke was on the schmucks who didn’t get it.

And yet, it just wasn’t the same.

Sure, I appreciated his imperious delivery; the way he spread the shadow of his hand over the audience and made them bend to his every whim. I admired the routines that still carried enough lead to machine gun the world and I smiled, nodded approvingly, chuckled knowingly, but I didn’t piss myself laughing. What was wrong with me? Had I finally conformed, like those arseholes in University who thought it was rebellious to become soap dodgers and stink for three years before cutting their hair and working in a merchant bank?

The sad fact was that when I switched William Melvin Hicks off for what I thought maybe the last time, I was totally underwhelmed.

Fast forward two years later and to the London Film Festival. I feel like Odysseus stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. Do I watch “Precious” and see what all the fuss is about, or catch the new British documentary about Bill? I felt mad at myself for how I left it with him before. Would this be my last opportunity to square things with him or, God forbid, prove myself right once and for all? I hovered by Leicester Square tube chewing it around in my head, glanced at the “Precious” poster and f*cked off to see Bill.

The NFT was crammed with Bill’s disciples. I bedded down in my seat and wondered what he would have made of the cult that still flourished all those years after his death. I replayed his JFK sniper pendant skit and peered closely to see if anyone wore a tiny silver cigarette around their neck. Checking my blue school exercise book, I wrote: “Will you laugh?” I was almost daring myself not to.

To add more gravity to the occasion, Bill’s mum, brother and best friend were there with the directors. And then reality hit home. This legend, this guy, was also someone’s son, brother and best friend, and they were going to have him back for two hours. The rare footage of his early gigs, the animated photos of childhood, that voice – it would all reincarnate him in celluloid for the briefest of moments.

It reminded me of a lesson I recently had with one of my film groups, watching “North By Northwest.” None of the students had ever seen it but there they sat, enthralled by Cary Grant and James Mason in that divine Technicolor, the actors flawless in their delivery, just as they will remain forever. So enraptured were they that when it ended, I pointed out they’d just seen a film where the two stars and the director were all dead. So alive was Hitchcock’s movie that even though they knew they were no longer with us, it never once crossed their minds. If cinema could have this effect on my students, what could it do for Bill’s family and friends?

Did I like the movie? Let’s just say I got one of my heroes back. That doesn’t happen everyday.

In conversations with Black celebrities like Dr. Maya Angelou, Nia Long, Ice T, Raven Symone and the Reverend Al Sharpton, Rock attempted to discuss how Black women feel about their hair. With the exception of one actress, each woman presented either wore a weave or had her hair relaxed. This gives the impression that Black women do not embrace their natural hair, thus perpetuating the idea that we are forever envious of White women. In a world in which beauty is conceived of as a specifically female power, investing White women with the sole ability to marshal said power is deeply problematic.

Casting Black women as envious of White women serves patriarchy and the White supremacist state. In “Good Hair,” Dr. Maya Angelou commented that “hair is a woman’s crowning beauty.” If Black hair is forever considered unfeminine, it cements the social understanding of Black women as “other.” If Black women cannot be understood as women, they are necessarily unrapeable, easy to stereotype as hyper sexual, angry and ugly.

In “Good Hair,” it was suggested that Black women are seeking the idealized attributes of White women and therefore the chase in and of itself, is confirmation that we (read: Black women), affirm our second class standing. One does not seek change, if the present form is acceptable and loved.

Rock reports that so desperate are Black women for change, that the Black hair care industry earns a multi-billion dollar profit yearly. It is quite possible that given the right resources, a woman is capable of spending thousands of dollars each year on hair and products alone. One beauty shop featured has a layaway plan where customers could pay for a thousand dollar weave over time. It was suggested by Al Sharpton that the Black men are expected to subsidize the cost of said beauty treatment and that this leads to a breakdown in relationships. Chris Rock mirrored this sentiment in an interview with Screen Crave:

“The big thing really was how it’s not good for relationships. The money spent. It is almost like dating somebody with a drug habit, almost. You know what I mean? It’s like dating a guy who spent 10 grand a year on baseball cards. You know what I mean? It probably wouldn’t work, would it?”

It is well known that the number of intact Black families is low. To suggest that hair has the potential to ruin Black relationships is ridiculous when we consider the high incarceration rates for Black men, the increasing success of Black women in higher education, and inter-racial marriages. The Black man has always viewed the oppression of Black women as a symbol of masculinity however, yet the Black woman is the rock upon which the community is built.

When there are complex reasons for a social phenomenon, we are encouraged to always blame the marginalized group, even when they exist with the least social power. Because the Black woman has no institutional power, she ultimately is to blame, even though she is the least likely to create and or support any social organization. It cannot be argued that Black women do not invest a lot of money into their beauty regimen, yet so do White women. Why is their expenditure not fodder for commentary? They are not all going to “First Choice Hair Cutters” for a cheap trim, after all.

While decrying the effort of some Black women to conform to Euro-centric beauty standards, Rock points out that those that refuse to concede are considered less desirable, and even radical. If a Black woman who weaves or straightens her hair is considered to be high maintenance and pandering to Whitenes and a natural hairstyle is considered repulsive and aggressive, how can Black women ever be understood to be acceptable to the larger society? The point is to ensure that whatever our decision regarding our hair care, the possibility exists to hold Black women up for ridicule. One cannot exist with agency if there is never any possibility of affirmation or acceptance. Choosing between two socially understood negatives will always render a negative.

Chris Rock asserted that this movie was for the Black community, and yet it has revealed nothing new. Since Madame C.J Walker made her riches creating relaxers, we have known exactly how toxic they are. The burn of the chemical itself speaks of the damage that we are inflicting on our bodies.

Barbershops and Black women’s beauty salons have always been gathering places. From these hallowed institutions we have discussed everything from current events, to sports, to our place in the larger society. These conversations have been going on for decades and all Rock did in this documentary is to minimize the dialogue to ridiculous sound bites that amount to coonery.

“Good Hair” was not a movie for Black people. It was a slanted take on our stories for the consumption of Whiteness. Even as I sat in the theatre, filled with rage at the reduction of Black women for profit, the White couple who sat directly behind me laughed repeatedly. It was as though this movie gave them permission to publicly ridicule the all too serious struggles of Black women.

Whiteness cannot be reduced in this manner. Even though White women are quite capable of spending a serious amount of money on their hair and have their own beauty rituals to which they adhere, their stories are not deemed entertainment. Whiteness is so normalized, that the dyeing, teasing, or tapering done to their hair is not deemed comment worthy. It is Blackness that must be explored and laid naked for all to see. We do not like to think that there are those that support the continued marginalization of people of color, but “Good Hair” proves that even within our own community, there are those that are willing to share our most private moments of communion for a buck.

I’ve noticed that, as a society, we get our collective, gender non-specific underpants positively sailor-knotted about a number of things that don’t matter. I realize that I’m being somewhat vague, and I have to tell you, it’s just unavoidable. Great philosophers and mystics throughout history have been much the same.

Obi Wan Kenobi, for example, was a doddering grandfather, muttering half-facts while waving around a laser sword that he clearly didn’t have a valid license for. Peter Venkman alternated between sarcastic meditation and hitting on a woman with undiagnosed [1] acromegaly. Olmec, the wall-face from Nickolodeon’s all-too-brief “Legends of the Hidden Temple,” just laughed and taunted contestants that fell into smoking slime pits.

Clearly, I’m breaking from tradition when I elaborate, but honestly, I’m willing to do anything just to keep you from snuggling against me and giggling into my armpit after telling me that “you aren’t sure you can drive because you feel, like, so tipsy tonight.” You’re making a scene in front of all my friends.

The example that comes to mind is slightly dated, but perfect. As you may have heard, Kanye West committed a social faux pas by clambering up on stage at the VMA’s recently, grabbing the microphone from a startled Taylor Swift, and announcing that Beyonce Knowles should have received the award for best video. We were shocked by this effrontery: we were offended on behalf of the young singer, whose big night was ruined by Kanye’s motormouth and pushy ego. Of course, the fact that this registered in the public conscious is the problem I’m getting at.

First, it’s a common, tragic mistake to think of Kanye West as a functional adult. The fact that he can a) make beats on a laptop, and b) be friends with other, more talented rappers has somehow blinded society into believing that he doesn’t have the emotional maturity of a Looney Tunes character.

I don’t know who was running the event, but they really should have known that if Kanye West gets bored or feels he isn’t the center of attention for more than a few minutes, he’s going to do something misinformed and YouTube-worthy [2]. If you think about it, this was really the fault of whoever didn’t have the foresight to give Kanye West something shiny to captivate him/a playpen to sit in/the wrong address for the event.

Furthermore, it’s important to keep in mind that we were dealing with a drunken Kanye West. I’m actually fairly impressed by this. If my assessment of every rap video ever made is correct, the entire hip hop industry seems to be centered around two things: blowing money on the tastelessly obscene, and shockingly hot girls gyrating in weird locations. Keeping this in mind, I would have at least expected Kanye to set some sort of endangered animal on fire and then snort the ashes. Really, he’s to be commended.

Finally, we have to consider the artist he insulted: Taylor Swift. I only know she’s a musician because this all happened at the VMA’s. My detective’s instincts are telling me that she was there receiving an award for a music video or being one of the few starlets to not leak a poorly-shot sex tape. As far as I can tell, she looks like another generic celebrity with eyeballs like an anime character. When I look at her, I just start thinking about the times when celebrities were interesting enough to bite the heads off of bats and get banned from San Antonio.

I looked up the song she won a VMA for: “You Belong with Me.” Listening to this nonsense was like eating a lukewarm, soggy Krispy Kreme with way too much glaze on it – and the realizing that you were violently killed, have gone straight to Hell, and have to eat these for the rest of eternity. If I were the President, I suppose I’d have a ‘eureka’ moment, when I realized “Finally, a song so annoying it’ll make our enemies just use their weapons of mass destruction on themselves!” So I suppose I’d have to give her a Purple Heart or something, but certainly not a VMA.

Beyonce probably did deserve the award slightly more than Taylor Swift. Not for any artistic labors of her own, I hasten to add. Her latest hit single was a relatively unenlightening dialogue on how, if you happen to enjoy banging her, you had better produce a marriage proposal in due time, or the banging will cease. Aside from sharing with us all what might be the most romantic sentiment of all time, she’s also stated in interviews that she has a separate, braver, stage personality she’s named Sasha Fierce. That’s a fantastic name for an adorable, possibly gay kitten, but it sounds dumb when you apply it to a grown woman.

Ultimately, though, were Kanye’s shenanigans worth all the furor? Like most things in the headlines these days, probably not. It was a predictable event, precipitated by the massive ego of an idiot that we ourselves created – and really, it’s more funny than morally reprehensible. Of course, I base all of this on the unassailable opinion that 99% of all celebrities are overpaid and under-literate.

Therefore, my advice to you, sweet reader, is to try and apply this sort of logic to all the pieces of news that bother you. I think you’ll find yourself a lot more relaxed, and with a surprising amount of free time.

…Or maybe this really has just been a massive ruse to distract you from my rippling shoulders and David-esque bone structure while I make a graceful exit.

Stop it. I’m blushing.

[1] Until now! Ta-da!
[2] With the exception of his first two albums, I think I just summed up his entire career. I know, you’re about to protest, but I’m going to stop you now and just point out that liking 808’s and Heartbreak is stupid. It’s a stupid opinion, OK?

This Tucker Max character also had a book out (we were too cheap to buy it), and a movie. Something called “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell,” with a badass trailer. Unfortunately, we were stuck in the middle of Mississippi, ten hours from the nearest stop on the premiere tour. Which was sold out anyway.

But then, a second showing was miraculously added in Austin.

Egon: Dude, we should totally go.
Jesus*: I want to go to the Ole Miss game.
Harding*: And it’s ten hours.
Big Daddy*: And we probably can’t get tickets anyway. And we have class tomorrow.

(*Names changed to protect the guilty.)

Egon: What if I can guarantee us tickets?
Big Daddy and Harding: Sure.
Egon: Here — let me play up the U. Chicago connection, both Tucker and I went there for undergrad [emails Tucker].

Email from Tucker: [Did not happen].

Egon: Okay, let me talk to Natalia. She edits GlobalComment, and she’ll get me press tickets.
Natalia: [Tells Tucker's PR guy that Egon will review the movie, gets Egon four press tickets].

Now, this brings us to the morning of the show:

Big Daddy: God, I’m hung over [groans].
Harding: This girl’s coming to see me from Alabama. Tucker’s a funny guy, but I’m not giving up six hours of hot, sweaty fornication for him.
Egon: Tell her to come in later. You’re not going to be having sex all night.
Harding: You don’t know this girl.
Egon: Fine, what about you, Jesus?
Jesus: Ole Miss v. Southeastern Louisiana. Game of the century!

Undeterred, I got on my motorcycle and proceeded to drive ten hours through all manner of rain, wind, dirt, and a few weather conditions known only to Louisiana and southern Texas. I arrived at my crappy Austin motel with twenty minutes to spare, clinging to consciousness by the tenuous threads of Red Bull and Jolt. I took off my boots and removed my water-logged socks, washed my face and changed into a black button down with, I must point out, some seriously subtle crimson piping. I barely made it to the theater.

Egon with actress Keri Lynn Pratt. You can't see the subtle piping, but it's there.

After the film, I found my way, along with the other press folks, onto the tour bus for the interview. Co-writer Nils Parker and his lovely wife Jennifer were supremely gracious. They fished beers out of the cooler for the press, and even rustled up some Grey Goose and orange juice when I asked for a screwdriver.

The first thing we discovered that night was that Tucker Max is a self-proclaimed narcissist, emphasis on the “proclaimed” bit. He mentioned the word at least a dozen times during the interview. According to Tucker, “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell” is a story about a narcissist “learning to model appropriate behavior.” Tucker even veered into Jack Handey territory for a moment: “narcissism comes from having the ego fill what the family should have.” Mommy didn’t love him enough.

Ultimately, I’m not sure I buy that, though. The Tucker I observed was caring toward his friends and downright tender to his dog (a grey beagle mix). Tucker seems quite aware of how people perceive him (for both good and ill). And, if he was a true narcissist, he’d care. He’d need the love. Or at least the affirmation.

A true narcissist wouldn’t have alienated countless Hollywood powerbrokers to maintain creative control over his art. He’d have done anything for stardom. Instead, he passed up a lot of money to deliver a better product to his fans. This is, I believe, the fascinating part about Tucker Max. He certainly started out as a narcissist, but somewhere along the way he found a twisted form of enlightenment. He cares about other people, he merely refuses to let them decide how he lives his life.

Clarity came when I questioned whether the film’s caustic wedding speech would have gone over so well in real life. He informed me that the speech was taken nearly verbatim from two of his actual wedding toasts. “That’s the thing, the more you push and the further you go, the more room people give you … If you walk in like you own the place, you will.” I nodded, taking a swig of my screwdriver, and looking around the bus at all the real journalists.

Tucker’s macho and I’m a nerd. I like riding Harleys, he likes riding midget strippers. He’s offensive, I’m weird. All this time, I’d been asking myself what we had in common. And there it was. We do what we please, we live in the moment, and we’re shameless when it comes to pursuing our own happiness. We just happen to find said happiness in different places.

And this is where so many of both the fans and the haters get it wrong. The fans often seem to measure success by who can act the most like Tucker Max, while the haters label Tucker a failure for disregarding their social norms. Tucker, though, seems to measure success by what makes him happy (which, oddly enough, often involves acting like Tucker Max). And if Tucker didn’t constantly mention how essential his friends are to his success, to his happiness, I might still believe he was a narcissist.

But if you’re getting tired of my narcissism and want to know what the movie was like, picture “American Pie” (the original), “Superbad,” and “The Hangover,” neatly rolled into one. While this ground has been tread (and retread) before, the visceral realism, grit, and occasional whiff of soul make Tucker’s film unique. Even the two-minute toilet scene — the most outrageous I’ve encountered absent girls or cups — didn’t feel gratuitous.

“I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” is not, as its protagonist honestly believes, the best comedy of the decade. “Me and You and Everyone We Know,” among others, has a better claim to that title. But, when it comes to intelligent, laugh-until-your-ulcers-burst raunch, Tucker Max is king. And, as the philosopher Bruce Campbell once said, “hail to the king, baby.”

Typically a bunch of mismatched guys, each with a unique martial skill are dispatched to blow the hell out of something very big and end the war by Christmas. Toss in a couple of beautiful female agents, a double-crossing bastard, and the obligatory all-star cast and you have the classic World War II adventure yarn as penned by Jack Higgins or Alistair MacLean. Here are the finest examples:

“The Dirty Dozen” – Robert Aldrich

The Mission: 12 US Army prisoners are given a final shot at redemption by exterminating a chateau full to the brim of German Officers.

Top Dog: Real life Marine Lee Marvin as the anti-authoritarian Major Reisman.

Best Scene: The musical plan to destroy the chateau. You’ll be humming it for hours.

Heroic Death: Former American Football star Jim Brown shot down after igniting the explosives.

Has it got Telly Savalas or Donald Sutherland in it? You lucked out! It has both of them! Savalas as the unhinged Maggot and Sutherland as the comic relief Pinkley.

“Where Eagles Dare” - Brian G Hutton

The Mission: British and American agents parachute into Bavaria to rescue an American General, but from there on in it gets complicated.

Top Dog: Richard Burton at his Shakespearean best as Major Smith.

Best Scene: The over-complicated but brilliantly realised “master list” sequence. Nothing short of genius.

Heroic Death: None. The double agents die a traitor’s death!

Has it got Telly Savalas or Donald Sutherland in it? Neither, unfortunately, but it has got an up-and-coming Clint Eastwood.

“Kelly’s Heroes” - Brian G Hutton

The Mission: A rag-tag platoon led by Clint Eastwood’s demoted officer plan to steal a fortune in gold deep behind enemy lines.

Top Dog: Eastwood’s coolly intelligent Kelly playing lightly with his Man With No Name archetype.

Best Scene: The platoon manoeuvring into position in an expertly crafted 20-minute set piece. A filmmaking master class.

Heroic Death: Corporal Job’s tragic demise in a minefield still pulls at the heartstrings.

Has it got Telly Savalas or Donald Sutherland in it? Bingo! Both pull off classic performances. Savalas is at his wisecracking best as Big Joe and Sutherland is the iconic proto-hippie Oddball.

“The Eagle Has Landed” – John Sturges

The Mission: Michael Caine’s disgraced German Colonel and his remaining paratroopers are sent to England disguised as Polish soldiers to assassinate Winston Churchill and bring about a negotiated peace for the Nazi’s.

Top Dog: Michael Caine, so good you almost want him to succeed.

Best Scene: J.R Ewing from “Dallas”… *cough* I mean, Larry Hagman’s inexperienced Colonel leading a disastrous attack on the Germans in the middle of an English country village. “Midsommer Murders” meets “Saving Private Ryan.”

Heroic Death: One of Caine’s men dying on a waterwheel whilst saving a little girl from drowning, revealing their true identity.

Has it got Telly Savalas or Donald Sutherland in it? Sutherland plays I.R.A. member Liam Devlin who has time to woo naive Jenny Agutter amongst his duties for the Nazis.

“The Bridge At Remagen” – John Guillermin

The Mission: Exhausted American Soldiers reluctantly try to take the last bridge across the Rhine intact.

Top Dog: George Segal’s world weary Lieutenant Hartman is as cynical as they come.

Best Scene: The German’s failure to destroy the bridge. An excellent metaphor for Hitler’s refusal to surrender and save further suffering.

Heroic Death: Robert Vaughn’s Major Kruger gallantly facing the firing squad for a trumped up charge of desertion. Watch him reach for his lost cigarette case.

Has it got Telly Savalas or Donald Sutherland in it? Not this time, but Ben Gazzara does a pretty good Savalas impression as the body looter Sgt Angelo. Gazzara was also a regular in John Cassavetes’ independent films, and Cassavetes was himself Oscar Nominated for his role in “The Dirty Dozen.”

1. I’ve had this pen for a long time. Its preternaturally superfine tip and cosmically peaceful light blue shade have carried me through more classes and pages of notes than most people have had hot meals. If the Rapture were to happen tomorrow itself, St. Michael would almost certainly come down to Earth a day early and ask me if he could use the last of this pen’s ink to tattoo “Psalm Life” across his six pack, prison-style.

2. This is an article by the only Global Comment author who writes as though he just finished losing a boxing match to a kangaroo.

My overall point in relating all of this is not very kind, and I won’t pretend it is. But, ultimately, I like sharing, and you like spending company time on stuff like this, so let’s just forge ahead, shall we?

You see, I was more upset about this pen running out of ink than I was during the Michael Jackson funeral.

I should probably clarify that I’m not happy about the fact that he died. I’m not even neutral; the whole affair is sad, but in a way that’s different from the one the media has been using to wring ratings out of their flipper-clapping public. Michael Jackson was popularly known as the King of Pop, and to much lesser extents, as the Ambassador of Funk, the Surgeon General of Fashion Twirls, and the CEO of Pelvic Communications, LTD. He was hailed as an innovator, an artist, and a prodigy. But when I look at his life, all is see is a sequined version of the bearded lady. Michael Jackson was possibly the least prepared person to become the music legend we all turned him into.

Consider his early life: when most kids were busy bungling long division, he was spending his days getting whipped by his father and his nights performing at lounges and strip clubs. Honestly, I’m surprised Jackson had the time or inclination to learn how to read. When I first read about his early childhood, I found myself thinking that in a fair world, he would have been abandoned and subsequently raised by a tribe of friendly animals. I’ve seen Disney’s “Tarzan,” and would much rather entrust a baby to a nomadic group of pantless primates and a Phil Collins soundtrack than to Joe Jackson. And that’s even after you belt him to a stretcher and put a Hannibal mask on his face.

Let’s talk about Joe Jackson. I’m being as delicate as I know how when I say that he’s a money-grubbing jackal in human shape, and I think it would serve some sort of grand universal purpose if we hog-tied him to an old Russian nuke and fired him at the sun. He decided that rather than allow his kids to have any semblance of normal life, it would be a far better parenting tactic to force his dream on them with a belt, or his bare fists if it came down to it.

It was reported that Joe Jackson once held Michael up in the air by one leg and pummeled him with the other. I’m almost positive that’s one of those power attacks from Street Fighter II, where you mash ‘A’ as fast as you can. It might be going a little far to compare Joe Jackson to Michael Vick, but there are certain parallels between their training methods.

Obviously, everyone’s parents have a different approach to child-raising, which may or may not be a great fit for that particular kid. But you have to moonwalk to the far end of the bell-curve to find Joe Jackson’s strategy of “crack knuckles and make threats during all 13 hours of family dance practice.” And remember, all of this is before Michael even went on to have a mind-blowingly successful solo career.

You have to give it to him: Michael Jackson wasn’t nearly as screwed up as he should have been.

America loved Jackson for at least 2.6 out of his 4-decade career. He gave us “Thriller,” a harrowing tale about the roving undead and their ghastly lust for human flesh and intriguing choreography. The Robot, frankly, changed the face of entertainment forever (1). And most importantly (I’m going to allow myself a bit of an aside here) he broke what I consider to be the sound barrier of American rock: the higher registers.

Rock artists for years before had tried to ride the higher notes, and every one of them had crashed and burned. It was always the same: first a couple hard, heavy hits, delivered in ripped-up jeans and soaked in Jaegermeister, just like we liked it. Then, maybe a few power ballads, which we… well, we liked it less, but we tried to respect it as much as you can respect somebody with a skull tattooed on their scrotum crooning about how “every rose has it’s thorn.” And finally, they’d try to come out with some sort of timeless classic, as if they were unveiling their secret, “real” genius.” I call this Billy Joel Syndrome (2).

But Michael solved all that. Who knew that pelvis thrusting, of all things, would be the answer? I think it works because it’s just hard to make fun of a guy who’s so insanely confident that he’ll start miming intercourse right in front of you. “Sh*t,” you say to yourself. “This guy is having sex with a poltergeist and staying on beat. I’d better just smile and enjoy.”

Michael Jackson was tragic, in the sense that he was monumentally accomplished, but also batsh*t crazy. He was the guy who imposed some sort of symbolic monarchy over pop music, and took himself completely seriously. He air humped his way into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (3). He gave serious thought to his wardrobe, and ended up dressing like some sort of special lieutenant, about to lead a platoon of ballerinas during the Tet offensive. He completely expunged every molecule of pigment and nose from his entire body; it was like watching that guy melt at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” but in decades-long slow motion.

We looked away as a country for what seemed like a second, and the next thing we knew, he was buying up ranches and turning them into every parent’s nightmare version of a petting zoo. He luckily owned the rights to all those Beatles’ songs, because he was getting sued from every which way. It finally got to the point where he was dangling babies off of balconies, and we were relieved that it wasn’t anything worse.

I don’t think that was his fault, though – or, at least, not 90% of it. He was a person who fortunately or unfortunately was born into a very peculiar life that started out incredibly badly. And I don’t feel that many people, if any, were willing to help him. Whatever else he was, he was an incredible franchise, and I doubt anybody in a real position to help would have been willing to screw that up just for his so-called mental health.

By the end of his life, he was a pariah; five minutes after the end of his life, he was once again one of the most popular men on earth. His funeral was vast, undignified, tawdry, and maximized for ratings; it had all the class and legacy of a celebrity sex tape. Ultimately, to me, it felt like an event simply for the sake of an event. It was mentioned multiple times during the event that he “would have wanted” this or that or whatever. I really doubt the guy knew what he wanted, or even why. But very, very few people in the world would tell you that they specifically want a convoy of Escalades involved. You might as well hire Timbaland to mix up a rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance” while they lower you into the ground (5).

The entire funeral was a way to mourn the myth, the guy with the spins and the quick steps. But as for the guy that actually died? Well, he spent the vast majority of his life stumbling to or in between personal screw-ups and massive lawsuits, which he may never ended up in if he hadn’t had the misfortune to be an amazing entertainer. I don’t think he was necessarily unhappy, because it was the only life he ever knew; unfortunately, we can apply the exact same statement to the bacteria living in our colons.

I liked some of his albums, but I thought most of his later stuff sucked – which doesn’t necessarily reflect badly on him, since almost all artists create bunk later on, when they slowly move away from the things that made us like them in the first place. He probably had a hard time living up to his own mythos – anybody would have. That sort of pressure probably exacerbated whatever other problems he did have.

If there is a heaven for rockers, I hope he’s up there making a new, better album with Freddie Mercury, and that he was too busy to see what kitschy mess his idiot friends and money-grubbing family made out of his funeral. It was never about him anyway.

1. There’s at least one person in the world who was conceived because a) their mom got impressed at how well their dad could do The Robot, and b) colorful, alcoholic drinks. Think about it.

2. Billy Joel must be miserable, because he’ll always be remembered for “Piano Man.” That’s like being one of the greatest UFC fighters of all time, but only being remembered as “that guy who wore panties on his head.”

3. This isn’t actually that rare, now that I think about it.

4. Even as I write this, I’m betting some exec is forehead slapping themselves for not thinking of this.