The Man-Crush Hall of Fame: Andy Kaufman

Thirty years ago today, Andy Kaufman made his eleventh appearance on Saturday Night Live. He wrestled women, as he was prone to do at the time. I also wrestled a woman that day. I was being born.

Exactly twenty years later, on my twentieth birthday (go figure), several of my closest friends from high school and I went to see Jim Carrey portray Andy Kaufman in the biopic Man on the Moon, and my life changed. Yes, Jim Carrey's performance was just that good, but he had phenomenal material to work with, namely the life and antics of one of comedy's most influential, cutting edge voices . . . ever. My exposure to Andy Kaufman's work shaped my opinions of (and attempted participation in) entertainment and news media. He was a force to be reckoned with then, and in light of theories that he faked his death as the ultimate put-on, he's a force to be reckoned with now.

According to Bob Zmuda's biography of Kaufman (pictured here on my desk next to fellow man-crush Les Stroud), Andy didn't perform his stand-up comedy and variety acts to entertain others; he simply sought to entertain himself. While his humor seemed to be at others' expense, Bob was often a plant with whom the audience could sympathize, making Andy (or his counterpart Tony Clifton) the villain -- and Andy understood that the bad guy is often the most compelling character of all. His love of this old vaudevillian rapport with the house didn't jive with audiences then, and I don't think audiences would get it now, but knowing just that much about the man behind the curtain only makes his work that much more impressive.

In 2004, I had the chance to attend the 20th anniversary "celebration" of Andy's death at the House of Blues in Hollywood. Comedians like Jim Norton performed, Tony Clifton made an honorable appearance, and afterward hangers-on were treated to a Mexican wrestling show at the Comedy Store across the street. (Actually, true believers that stayed until the wee hours were treated to more than that, but I was foolish enough to go home and miss out.) Just this year, on December 3, I had the chance to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Andy's death with a special screening of Dear Andy Kaufman, I Hate Your Guts! at the Silent Movie Theater, a montage of rare Kaufman clips hosted by his girlfriend Lynne Margulies. Tony Clifton made a substantially hilarious appearance (you can find it on YouTube), as did Andy Dick and Zmuda, who shared in fans' speculation about Andy's death. Lynne (and Bob) was kind enough to sign my copy of her latest book, a compilation of angry letters Andy received while wrestling women in the '70s. I actually found out about this event when The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson e-mailed me an offer to see another taping and I sought other events in the area to make the drive to Hollywood worthwhile. Obviously, like when I saw Man on the Moon ten years ago, it was meant to be.



So what makes Andy Kaufman a worthy man-crush, not to mention a place in my man-crush hall of fame? Simply put, Andy developed a conscious philosophy about entertainment and pop culture that fueled his career, and more so than any genre of comedy or performance art, he upheld that philosophy until his controversial dying day -- to the point where some folks don't believe he died! He transcended traditional stand-up, was more than any sitcom or sketch show could bare, and blazed a trail so daring few others have walked it as successfully since.

As much as I love pop culture entertainment, this mentality -- the philosophy turned lifestyle -- applies to all things: for me personally, my life has been an attempt to preserve the sanctity, innocence, and wonder of childhood, firstly by maintaining the same likes and hobbies I had as a kid, and secondly by finding a job that helps me inspire others to this philosophy. Today, on my thirtieth birthday, the first day of the rest of my life, I'm faced with the challenge of finding other ways to do that. Andy Kaufman showed us that the sky's the limit -- you can go beyond the sky, in fact. You can be the man on the moon.

In the meantime, Merry Russmas, and enjoy this gift, which may or may not be related to that fateful day I met Andy.

The Karaoke Chronicles: The Eleventh Night of Russmas

The penultimate night of Russmas was more treacherous than I could’ve anticipated, perhaps like the very night before Christmas, if you believe the tale of Joseph and Mary’s difficult journey to that fateful manager. When my girlfriend and I arrived at Lucky John’s, we came up unlucky and discovered no room at the proverbial inn, as karaoke was scheduled for Wednesday night despite the Sunday night listing I had researched on-line. Fortunately, I had picked up an issue of Karaoke Scene magazine at Sherwood the night before, which lists karaoke locations by night and county, so we quickly found the Rio Vista Inn in our neighboring Anaheim, like the star that guided the wise men . . . or something. Undaunted, westward lead, we proceeded.

I remembered frequenting the Rio once before, so despite its unlit sign we found the venue relatively easily. Before we strolled into the joint, a gentleman asked to see our licenses and promptly tried to pick up my girl. Thankfully, she isn’t into sixty-year-old smokers with large facial birthmarks -- and, in retrospect, we wonder if the guy even really worked there. We found a booth and the fellow approached again, this time asking about my karaoke preferences.

“Do you do Hootie?” he asked. “Hootie’s new stuff is good, his solo stuff.” I wouldn’t have pegged him for a blowfish kind of guy, but a blowhard? Definitely.

The Rio was full of interesting characters, including this Santa, just passing through from the adjacent bar to use the restroom but happy to answer the request of this little boy by posing for a pic.



Before I turned in a tune, my girlfriend noticed a sign that requested a dollar donation for every submitted song. Apparently, the proceeds benefited the U.S.O., but I can only trust that the Rio is a respectable establishment, the K.J. a man of integrity, and that they weren’t claiming the collection themselves. I was grateful to encounter the pay-to-play phenomenon, because it offered a more comprehensive Russmas experience. Really, only one place that requires a karaoke cover, out of eleven? Not bad. Admittedly, I sang two songs but only paid a single buck; that way, I either cheated the U.S.O. a dollar, or was scammed for only a dollar. I’m cool either way. My song choices were:

“Man on the Moon” -- R.E.M.*
“Wanted Dead or Alive” -- Bon Jovi

So, the last-minute venue change. the questionable I.D. expert, and the unexpected cover would’ve been notable enough, but I was perturbed by a patron whose disregard for his fellow karaoke enthusiast embodies one of my karaoke pet peeves. While a particularly lanky guy and his gal made a duet out of “Piano Man,” a conversely dense metal head tried to commandeer his mic, rudely. His behavior was straight up old school bullying, and his victim was obviously annoyed. This is the point in the night where the K.J. must step up and enforce the dirty side of entertainment facilitation -- assuring the momentary comfort of the entertainer. Alas, the hoarse old-timer was nowhere to be found, until the song was over and he announced my presence to the makeshift stage. Considering my next song was “Wanted Dead or Alive,” my feelings of an impending showdown were appropriate.

Sure enough, the metal head loomed in my peripherals, but I assume my death stare kept him at bay. He offered the “wanted” echoes during the chorus and dabbled with some high pitched harmonies, but I think my no nonsense attitude drove him off. Had he advanced, I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done, but in a venue where one must pay to play, the standards behind the mic should be higher. Sure, I’ve only paid a buck, but considering I could go anywhere else and sing for free, I expect my proverbial fifteen minutes of fame to be mine alone, if I so choose.

The baby Jesus faced a few challenges close to his birthday, too -- namely, a certain King Herod that sought to swipe his fifteen minutes of fame, as well. Fortunately, the lessons of his life still ring true some two-thousand years later, that, if your mission is pure, your cause just, no one can stand in your way.

* Nine years ago, my friends and I celebrated Russmas by seeing the recently released Man on the Moon, the Andy Kaufman bio-pic starring Jim Carrey. I didn’t know much about Kaufman at the time, but the film, coupled by the dually released memoir by Bob Zmuda, changed my life. His philosophy about entertainment, and his lifestyle of prankish antics, drove me to appreciate acts like this, and undoubtedly contributed to my love of karaoke, which often elicits more awkwardness from its audience than the performer. After all, what else is karaoke than releasing one’s own inner Tony Clifton?

A Head of My Time?

Last night's third season premiere of Survivorman was everything I'd hoped it would be. If you aren't familiar with Survivorman, on the Discovery Channel Friday nights, the show's website sums up its premise most concisely: "No food, no shelter, no fresh water, no tools . . . no camera crew. One man -- alone in the wild for seven days." Sure, several shows mimic this concept, but Les was the first to launch it successfully, first in his native Canada then here in the United States. He often simulates outdoor excursions gone wrong, like in last night's new episode, in which Stroud role-played a lost backpacker in the Sierra Nevadas. By far his most comprehensive exploration of survival, Les not only implemented his usual food-capturing, fire-starting, and shelter-building innovations, but also discussed the psychology of getting lost (which reminded me of Blair Witch, still lingering in the back-brain after Halloween) and the logistics of the local search and rescue office. In a world ruled by cell phones and wireless Internet connections, is it strange to feel reassured by the reminder that one can still get lost, even if the results are fatal? One part entertainer, one part educator, Survivorman does his best to both proudly boast and reassuringly alleviate the thought.

Yet the contents of last night's episode are only part of why Survivorman remains in my thoughts today. I've anticipated few things on television lately. Yes, Fox's Monday nights are still beloved, thanks to Prison Break and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, but if this week's episodes were the series' last, I don't think I'd mourn too much. In fact, both shows are written in such a way that they seem prepared for that inevitability -- that, as much as Michael's quest to unravel Scylla and Sarah's attempt to save her son for the impending apocalypse are respectively multifaceted, they're each just a single revelation from culminating in an explosive finale. Also, I'm moderately excited about next week's premiere of Batman: The Brave and the Bold on Cartoon Network, but I'm equally skeptical of its depth and longevity, as well. Alas, the end of the Presidential election means no more political partisan antagonism for awhile, either; the fight has actually gone inward, at least for the losing Republicans, which strikes me as just a rerun for all of the liberal criticism they received months ago -- in other words, boring. So, Stroud's search for some morsel of food in the Sierra Nevadas is somewhat reminiscent of my flipping through the cable channels these days. His is just more exciting to watch.

When it comes to what entertains me, I was simply born in the wrong decade . . . which is something I've heard plenty of people say, so I claim no originality in that regard. Though, I think I can pinpoint the disconnect; had I been born in 1959 instead of 1979, the original releases of my most favorite acts in entertainment would've corresponded with the age in which I liked them. Never mind that I would've been two years old when Spider-man premiered in Amazing Fantasy #15 (August 1962); the argument for comics can be made in any decade, and in fact had I been more attune to comics culture as a kid, I could've been shaped by the likes of The Dark Knight Returns and The Watchmen in real time rather than retrospectively. No, I'm thinking about the Monkees, whose 1966 debut would've paralleled my love for them when I was six-years-old. (Their 20 year reunion in '86 was great, including my seeing them in concert in Connecticut, but no Nesmith . . .? The first time is always the most memorable.) A genuine love for the Monkees then is like the kids' fanaticism for any American Idol now. Now, when I proclaim myself a Monkees fan, folks cock an eyebrow and ask, "They didn't even play their own instruments, right?" For the record, the Monkees were a multifaceted franchise that began as a television show, transitioned into a failed feature length film, and still continues to be a successful pop rock band, if only when the guys perform separately.

In fact, Davy Jones is performing in Orange County tonight. When I first researched his tour schedule over a year ago, I had just met Peter Tork, which was just on the heels of my meeting Micky Dolenz, so I was stoked to find out when the other two might be around. Unfortunately, tickets to Davy's show range from $30-$60, and since I've seen the Monkees perform three times not including those solo Micky and Peter shows, I'm less interested in the music than I am the meet-and-greet. I've called the venue twice and reps can't confirm if he'll be signed and picture-taking with fans. So, I've opted for this Wednesday's commemorative showing of Head, the Monkees' movie, which will precede a Q & A with Peter and Davy. I don't know if they'll mingle with fans there, either, but the opportunity is too definitively Monkees to miss -- definitely the better of the two upcoming options on a budget. Why must the circumstances of adulthood often restrain the fulfillment of long-standing childhood dreams?

Further, had I been born in '59, I would've been in my teens in the '70s and experienced the hijinks of Andy Kaufman as he first hatched them, rather than vicariously through the release of Man on the Moon and Bob Zmuda's book. Like this Wednesday's showing of Head, I was lucky enough to attend my generation's definitive Andy Kaufman event, the "Andy Kaufman: Dead or Alive" variety show at the Hollywood House of Blues in 2004 . . . but I wasn't smart enough to stay until the bitter end, which including a Kaufman walking tour and an invitation to the Bunny Ranch. This comes to mind because of a recent ad in the L.A. Weekly featuring Tony Clifton and the website for Two Boots pizzeria, which has a special slice named for Kaufman's lounge act alter ego. Initially, I'd hoped for a real Clifton appearance, but tomorrow's supposed press conference may be better -- fortuitous that I found it searching for the Two Boots connection. Perhaps his is one phenomenon that plays better in retrospect, considering the myth of Andy's resurrection . . .

Such are the thoughts that assure me of my place in history. In the heat of the moment, one never knows if their pop culture passions are fleeting (like, say, any American Idol after season one), but years later, one can benefit from the fellowship that comes with nostalgia. For example, sure, I wish I could've experienced the success of the Monkees in real time, I prefer the older crowd that will attend the Head showing today versus the screaming, teeny-bopper masses from their '60s concerts. Now, Monkees fans, or Kaufman fans, can enjoy developments with the clout of hindsight, with the relief that their beloved personalities are still influential if only through that pre-established work. Of course, this is the "nurture" side of the argument. I wonder, since my parents were born in the '50s and experienced these things in my stead, could it be that their absorption of it all instilled an appreciation of it all in me? Through . . . osmosis? Could it be . . . natural? Yes, I'm just trying to survive in a habitat of my own outdated tastes. Screw the Sierra Nevadas, Les. Trying getting out this one.