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.

My Man-Crushes Manifest: David Gray & Craig Ferguson Live!

UPDATE: David Gray appeared on Craig Ferguson's show Friday, November 20! Regarding David's English heritage, Craig said he's "one of the good ones." I love it! Check out the video, then read on about my week with these two man-crushes o' mine!





Back on September 22, I celebrated the release of David Gray's latest album Draw the Line and Craig Ferguson's autobiography American On Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot by dubbing both men my latest man-crushes. Well, if you thought I was excited that day, imagine the heights of my fanboy ecstasy as I saw both of them live this week! Yes, I had the pleasure of attending David Gray's concert at Los Angeles' Orpheum Theater on Monday, and, with Veterans' Day off from work, I seized the rare available weekday to reserve tickets for a taping of The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Both opportunities offered a sense of comprehensive appreciation for these guys' work, and of unexpected fulfillment for liking them so much in the first place.



The David Gray concert on Monday, November 9, was sold out, but I acquired my ticket through a Craigslist contact that opted for the impromptu Band of Horses show that night instead. (Thanks again, Erykah!) My friend Jennie joined me, and we waited in line and enjoyed the swanky digs of the Orpheum before Gray's opening act, Lisa Hannigan, took the stage. Lisa reminded me of a more eclectic Dolores O'Riordan (from the Cranberries), as she played a variety of stringed instruments and closed her set with a rockin' cover of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus." Fortunately, it wasn't long after that my evening's savior took the stage . . .



. . . and I was pleased that Gray started his set with "First Chance," since I'm a sucker for wordplay. Amazingly, he found just the right balance between new material and the hits his fans would want to hear -- though thanks to my listening to Draw the Line several times a week already, I'm a fan of it all. Highlights included an extended ending to "Nemesis," which Gray introduced as a very personal tune, a simple yet poignantly effective light show to "Slow Motion," and a stripped down version of "Ain't No Love," which kicked off his shorter encore set and admittedly brought tears to my eyes. Hey, it ain't called a man-crush for nothin', okay?! In the end, we heard all of the songs that have achieved radio play in the past few years, and over half of the new album -- but, of course, I was left wanting more. Leave it to a master performer like David Gray to know when to draw the line.



On Wednesday, my friend and coworker Konrad and I left Orange County around 1:30 p.m. to get to Craig Ferguson's 3:30 p.m. taping, and after navigating the labyrinth of one-way streets and full parking lots around the CBS Studios in Hollywood, we managed to get in the end of the line just in time to make the cut of 108 attendees. (I don't know if anyone was cut, but that sounds pretty dramatic, right?) The audience warm-up guy, Chunky B, joined us downstairs before we entered the studio, and amusingly talked about the importance of Veterans' Day, how he needed us to help Craig, a proactive American citizen, make dynamic television that night. As he put it, we weren't watching TV -- that afternoon, we were TV. Surely not as important as military service, but I took the responsibility pretty seriously . . .

. . . and by seriously, I mean not seriously at all, as we were frequently encouraged to laugh loudly, even if Chunky's jokes weren't that funny. Konrad commented on the awkwardness of being demanded to have a good time, and I agree that it's ironic, but, hey, that's show business, baby. Eventually, Craig came out to deliver his monologue, which included commentary about Polish Independence Day and the recent inductees into the Toy Hall of Fame. Now, I'm both Polish and an avid toy collector, so I could think of few other monologues that could've been more perfect for me to witness in person. After the monologue, and then in between tapings for segments, Craig talked to the audience as a whole, and while he offered no chance to get an autograph, he was nevertheless charming and sincere. Indeed, he was a gracious host in every sense of the word.

So, two man-crushes in one week. Only in Los Angeles, eh? Both experiences were unique yet united by my unadulterated excitement at the chance to see these masters of their respective crafts in person, if only as part of a larger audience. Perhaps that's the best way to do it -- to experience these shows in the midst of others that might feel the same way. Vindication isn't too far a leap from the realm of entertainment, right? Further, and finally, the chance to see them live, to catch any flaws or vulnerabilities in their performances, only makes their significance as male role models that much more poignant. After all, what better evidence is there than a peek behind the scenes to prove that their work is worthy of getting under my skin?

The Man-Crush Hall of Fame: David Letterman

Back in the primitive year of 2007, I consciously decided to publicly proclaim my appreciation for six male celebrities and their distinctive masculinity. Those celebrities were:



Duane "Dog the Bounty Hunter" Chapman
Vincet D'Onofrio
Chris Hanson
Joel McHale
Gordon Ramsey
Mr. T

Of course, things change in just two years, so I recently began revising this list of Man-Crushes, so far including:



Craig Ferguson
David Gray
Gordon Ramsey
Mr. T

Since I've vowed to retain only seven man-crushes at a time, making the list somewhat exclusive and contemporary, who among Chapman, D'Onofrio, Hanson, and McHale will make the cut remains to be seen. However, I have recently decided that I must also create a Man-Crush Hall of Fame, honoring male celebrities that I admired in my youth and continue to respect today. These men demonstrate such unapologetic masculinity that they transcend the three categories I've assigned to my regular man-crush list and establish a lifelong standard all their own. My inaugural choice for the Man-Crush Hall of Fame is one I made several months ago, and in light of current events, now deserves mention and description. Yes, the first man to enter my Man-Crush Hall of Fame is . . . David Letterman.

More than once, David Letterman was the only friend I had on New Year's Eve. Before he became Jay Leno's late night rival, Dave followed Johnny Carson on NBC with Late Night with David Letterman, the show then-rookie Conan O'Brien took over in 1993. Yes, more than once, I rang in an Arizona new year with Dave (and once, I vividly remember, a whole bucket of fried chicken), since his show was on at midnight. Before his move to CBS, Dave was like a real life cartoon character, his wide, circular glasses and informal khaki pants mere accessories to his exaggerated facial expressions and wacky themed segments. His interview style threw reverence to the wind and was all Bugs Bunny on Elmer Fudd, comically combative and ultimately harmless. Obviously intended for a younger audience, I don't know if Dave sought emulation from an eleven-year-old kid like me, but he got it anyway.



When Johnny Carson retired and Jay Leno won the Tonight Show mantle in '93 (the same year I started high school), CBS offered a jilted Letterman a prestigious opposing show, and Dave classed up the joint when he moved into America's homes an hour earlier. Since then, The Late Show with David Letterman has been a comforting, reliable influence in my life, primarily as a source for hilarious daily commentary and raucous, ridiculous comedy. In 1994, I visited my father in New York, got my picture taken with Hello Deli's Rupert Jee, and saw Patrick Stewart entering the Ed Sullivan Theater, then in '99, I saw a live taping. My sophomore year of high school, I joined the media club and I began reading weekly top 10 lists for our campus's televised announcements and was quickly dubbed "Top 10 Boy." As if to seal the deal, when I finally discovered Frank Miller's definitive Batman work The Dark Knight Returns, I was delighted to behold Dave's cameo -- a crossover with reality that secured Letterman's iconic place as my comedic hero.





I didn't realize just how important Dave had become in pop culture and the American landscape at large until his heart surgery in 2000. Then, after September 11, his somber reflections as a New York commuter gripped me more than any supposedly objective newscaster dared. During the writers' strike in 2007, The Late Show was the first to make a deal and return to air, and Dave's "strike beard" was a more shocking statement than any picket sign those writers cleverly penned. However, Letterman's personal life is most striking to me; Bill O'Reilly has frequently dubbed him a celebrity recluse, yet the details of Dave's personal life have always been forefront, usually thanks to his gossip-dodging transparency. I mean, Dave had a suicidal stalker in the '80s, frequently speaks openly of his surgery from 2000, talks proudly of his son Harry, and invites us into his mother's home every Thanksgiving to play "guess the pie." Further, like many others, my mouth hung open when he nonchalantly announced his matrimony on March 23, shrouded in a congratulatory note to the also newly wedded Bruce Willis. Sure, Dave isn't often caught in front of the paparazzi cameras, but he has a camera to himself every night that he uses just as candidly.

Ah, and October 1's episode was no exception. Like the other landmark Letterman episodes, I almost missed it if not for happenstance; in this case, the nightly news' teased an extortion attempt against him. I watched reverently as Dave explained the strange plot as best he could, concluding with his confession of infidelity with female members of his staff, and in the moments afterward, I silently renewed my vow to forever be a fan. See, as I heard Los Angeles talk radio personality Dave McIntyre explain, Letterman isn't really in charge of anything important. He's an entertainer, and his private life is ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I agree, but I admire Letterman, so why hasn't his sex scandal embittered me? Well, unlike politicians caught in similar schemes (incidentally, politicians are in charge of things), Dave confessed to his personal crimes and apologized to anyone it has adversely affected. Just as his heart surgery exposed his mortality, this latest development exposes his morality, and the man frequently, publicly struggles with both. Who am I to question his struggle, and make it worse by joining him in it?

Finally, and most importantly, Dave did not let his now scandalous personal life get in the way of doing his job. He didn't cancel his show and call a press conference, or schedule a heart-wrenching interview with Barbara Walters. Dave used his show as a personal forum to explain his misconduct in an honest, self-abashing humorous way, then proceeded business as usual. That's the lesson -- always has been. Jay Leno gets your dream job. Heart surgery. Whether or not it floats. September 11th. Sex scandal. Pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and go to work.

With almost 30 years on television, I can't think of a better time to be a David Letterman fan. Just a few weeks ago, he interviewed the President of the United States, for crying out loud. His production company introduced fellow man-crush Craig Ferguson to the world of late night, and it is so much better for it. You remember that Craig spoke at the White House Correspondents' Dinner last year and just released his autobiography, right? Dave's longtime partner, Paul Shaffer, recently released a memoir about his career in the music industry, too. Now, we watch a television icon overcome some personal hardship -- again -- the best way anyone can . . . by telling jokes at others' expense. Since I was eleven, Dave's been one of the funniest guys I know, and that was me finding him over ten years into his career. Now, closing in on thirty years? That's as long as Johnny Carson was the host of The Tonight Show! Everything else be damned. Has any celebrity been anything for almost 30 years, let alone hilarious? And the number one reason Dave is in my Man-Crush Hall of Fame is? Just that.

My Man-Crushes 2009: David Gray & Craig Ferguson Double Feature!

Today, Tuesday, September 22, is a special day for four distinct reasons: (1.) It's the first day of autumn, though one wouldn't know it from summer's tenacious grip on southern California, (2.) my birthday is exactly three months away, (3.) David Gray's new album, Draw the Line, comes out today, and (4.) so does Craig Ferguson's new book, American on Purpose: The Improbable Adventures of an Unlikely Patriot. Interestingly, I had already planned on dubbing both Gray and Ferguson current man-crushes, so to celebrate their latest contributions to pop culture I offer a man-crush double feature!

David Gray

Contemporary Influence: David Gray had been making music long before his single "Babylon" achieved regular radio play, but that hit single put Gray on the map -- and rightfully so, as "Babylon" betrays the introspection, urban plight, and clever word play that infuses many of Gray's best songs. Although few other singles of his have enjoyed as much American air play, Gray's songs have been used frequently in film and on television; recently, I heard "As I'm Leaving" playing during a promo for William Peterson's final episode of CSI. That track was from Gray's Lost Songs album, released in the States after "Babylon" and White Ladder started making serious waves. If even a lost song can get that kind of attention, who knows what David might accomplish when the world finally finds what he's capable of?

Practical Knowledge of the Opposite Sex: While most mainstream musicians boast knowledge of the opposite sex by way of the love ballad, David Gray is bold enough to lyrically document the hard times, too. Consider the lines: "And honey please don't stop your talking/'Cos there's a feeling won't leave me alone/What we gonna do when the money runs out/I wish that there was something left to say/How we gonna find the eyes to see/a brighter day?" If women like their men to emote, it doesn't get more emotional than that -- but in a definitively masculine way, mind you, as nothing frustrates a man more than a lack of tangible solutions. Thankfully, despite his name, Gray is one to pay less attention to the dark cloud and more its silver lining, as he proclaims, "Tell the repo man/And the stars above/That you're the one I love." In other words, no matter what this world may take away, there's no ceiling to true love. Even fools know that this what women want to hear, but only a David Gray can put it so eloquently.

Global Significance: Did you know that White Ladder is still the best selling album of all time in Ireland? Yes, the same way we Americans love Michael Jackson's Thriller or Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, the Irish love White Ladder (which may explain my affinity for it, as well). More so than that, as I mentioned earlier, Gray's ongoing themes are a bit more transcendent than your usual top 40s fare, and I submit for your consideration this live version of "Ain't No Love," my favorite of his songs. In three short verses, Gray muses about urban life, creativity, love, and religion, all in an introspective attempt to explain his direction (or lack thereof?) in life. Who can't relate to that?



Moved? Now, if you act fast, you may be able to acquire David's latest single, "Fugitive," at Starbucks for free via their free iTunes Pick of the Week!

Craig Ferguson

Contemporary Influence: I love late night television, and when done properly I believe it can be both a humorously seasoned synopsis of any given day and a timeless piece of pop culture entertainment. Every weeknight, Craig Ferguson embraces this opportunity wholeheartedly, balancing vaudevillian comedy via puppets and impromptu self-deprivation with relevant expositions on current events, like his recent rant about Congressman Joe Wilson's calling President Obama a liar. Consider this introduction from his September 11th episode, which combines these two elements in a virtual politically puppeted cartoon!



As an aside, Craig shamefully mentions in his book that the Monkees' Headquarters album was the first vinyl he ever owned, and it's the one I have signed by three out of four Monkees themselves! It doesn't get any more personal than that!

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: As I said, Craig's new autobiography dropped today, and as a celebrity boasting the addictions of his past in the same context as his bid for American citizenship, he probably could've appeared on any talk show to promote his book. So, where did he show up this morning? The View. Yes, his Scottish accent wooed the ladies of The View, and their natural feelings-oriented line of questioning was the perfect forum for Craig to express his former weaknesses and future career hopes and speculations. In other words, even in light of his latest success, Craig put the ladies first -- and in the morning, to boot!

Global Significance: From what I understand, Craig is a Scotsman that came to the United States in a drunken, drug-addled stupor in a mad quest for fame and celebrity -- and he eventually found it by shamelessly shedding his vices. He's often spoke of his first trip to America with his father, to New York, of course, where he vowed to return one day. This is the American dream for so many folks around the world -- that the U.S. is a land of first and second chances -- and we naturally born citizens take that for granted. That Craig takes any opportunity to share his joy at being American, from speaking at the President's White House Correspondence Dinner last year to nightly on CBS, proves he is a true patriot, indeed. Just look up his latest tattoo if you need any more proof!

There you have it: two more Europeans on my list of man-crushes (Gordon Ramsey being the first, of course). I'm grateful they're so eager to come to the U.S. and share their talent, but where are the American-bred icons? Is reality television so saturating the potential for homemade heroes that I must look overseas for masculine role models? Time will tell . . .

Alibi

This has quickly become one of my favorite music vidoes, and perhaps hints at who my next man-crush will be . . .

My Man-Crushes 2009: Mr. T

I have a confession to make. I almost removed Mr. T from my man-crush list. I know -- but hear me out! Considering the categories I've established by which to judge candidates, I wasn't sure if he'd fit the bill. Yes, Mr. T is definitely a man's man, and his body of work in the entertainment industry is multi-faceted and exhaustive, but frankly I was afraid that it was exhausted. Since his reality show on TV Land, which was airing when I wrote my first man-crush list, I haven't seen hide or mohawked hair of Mr. T . . . until a few weeks ago. Then, I saw this:



Mr. T is back -- and full of flavor! So, as if you really needed me to explain it, here's how Mr. T measures up by my man-crush standards!

Contemporary Influence: Hello? The FlavorWave? Need I go on?! Seriously, despite his delegation to infomercial celebrity, Mr. T has still made an impression on current events, as recently as a few years ago when he decided to give up wearing his token gold jewelry to help victims of Hurricane Katrina. How many celebrities would literally shed the skin of their wealth to help others so selflessly? That Mr. T hasn't been in the limelight as much lately is perhaps indicative of his continued good deeds behind the scenes -- that he'll stretch his head above water for a six minute infomercial is enough to say he's just paying the bills to get back to his real work: pitying fools.

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: I don't know about you, but frankly I can't imagine what Mrs. T would be like. She certainly wouldn't be prone to no jibber-jabber, that's for sure! Yet, Mr. T has always expressed the importance for loving one's mother, which speaks straight to the heart of women everywhere. Also, Mr. T is a problem-solving team player, which sends an important message to the opposite sex, as established from his role on The A-Team and as a leader in the Mr. T cartoon. Yes, there was a Mr. T cartoon -- which further says to the ladies, "Hey . . . I like kids." Sometimes the simplest gestures are the most important.

Global Significance: Finally, I dare say that Mr. T has become an ambassador of America to the world through his virtual conquest of all important media. From his role as Clubber Lang in Rocky III, to his delicious breakfast cereal, Mr. T knows the way to society's heart is through its stomach -- whether he's punching it or filling it with the most important meal of the day. Most importantly to me, Mr. T has appeared in a variety of comics, most recently in a series published by Mohawk Media in the UK. That's right -- the United Kingdom! Is that global enough for you?!

Finally, despite his getting on in years, Mr. T can undoubtedly crush me for not keeping him on my list, so rest assured -- even without those gold chains, Mr. T has earned a wealth . . . of my respect.

ADDENDUM: Did you know Mr. T stars in the animated film, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs?! I didn't until his fellow man-crush Craig Ferguson mentioned it on his September 21 show, when he boldly stated, "If you don't think Mr. T is awesome, I have a question for you: How long have you been in Al Qaeda?" Amen!

My Man-Crushes 2009: Gordon Ramsey

This month’s new season premiere of Hell’s Kitchen assures that Gordon Ramsey will have a place on my man-crush roll call for a long time. Perhaps the singular celebrity that actually inspired me to start such a list, Gordon has both embraced and demolished the American reality show’s obligatory British judge chair and reflects the compassion and conviction of a consummate professional. Indeed, he represents the epitome of the American working spirit in a way that should inspire any man, like so . . .

Contemporary Influence: Like I said, a new season of Hell’s Kitchen has begun just this month, putting Ramsey’s sour puss in American homes around the country once a week. Further, the contestants’ grand prize in every Hell’s Kitchen contest is a head chef position at some new prestigious restaurant -- which can only help the economy, making Ramsey himself relevant during these trying times. Of course, that his show adapts a reality game show format plays to everything successful on television nowadays, though Gordon’s gruff demeanor pits the contestants more at odds with him than at each other . . . but I’ll talk about that later.

A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: Any prime time television show about cooking is bound to attract the attention of the average American housewife. That isn’t a sexist statement; it’s what a network like Fox is counting on. Further, Ramsey’s confidence in the kitchen elevates the foul-mouthed Brit implies a smoldering sexuality, as it’s indicative of life lead by passion. That he calls the female contestants in Hell’s Kitchen “dumb cows” isn’t the point; that the women have a chance to beat a team of men is. If the women decide to devolve into helpless drama queens, well . . . that’s utterly disappointing. What better pet name would they deserve?

Global Significance: I started watching Hell’s Kitchen in the first place because it represented a necessary aspect of life, food preparation and presentation. Singing, dancing, dating, and the other practices that consume reality television are not necessities for living. Eating is. So, that Gordon has come from across the pond to teach us hapless Americans how to cook properly is essential, and that a component of his instruction includes successful business management is practically historical. Huh? Oh, yes, think about it; other British reality show judges usually critique without any contextual standard for their own expertise. Yet Ramsey drives contestants to be better than him, sometimes to the point of rebellion, just as our American forefathers decided to do.

So, I dare say, when you watch Hell’s Kitchen every Tuesday night on Fox (or, like me, on Wednesday nights once Fox.com has posted the episode on-line), Gordon Ramsey is holding up a mirror to America, reminding us of our entrepreneurial roots. He isn’t just feeding our bellies, but our egos, too, if we let him. You don’t have to boast a passion for cooking to strive for excellence in the field of your choice, and Ramsey’s message is based on simply taking that chance -- even if it’s a chance in Hell.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude Addendum: Michael Jackson, the King of Pop

I should be clear that the qualities I look for in a man-crush -- contemporary influence, a practical understanding of the opposite sex, and global significance -- must be modeled in a positive way, lest the man not crush me but himself under the weight of his own self-inflation. Just as I took advantage of the recent passing of Billy Mays to illustrate these traits productively, I've decided to process the worldwide media frenzy over Michael Jackson's death as an example in contrast. Otherwise, the news' nonstop coverage of the King of Pop's passing might just pop a vein in forehead.

Michael Jackson is the consummate example of contemporary influence, from his role as lead singer for the first real boy band to the controversy surrounding his supposed love of little boys -- in other words, if he isn't topping the charts, he's topping the headlines. However, I won't indulge in easy jabs about his social awkwardness; frankly, it's too easy, and despite all else, when someone, anyone, dies, a family hurts, and that isn't funny. Therein lies the tragedy of his falling short of man-crush status: while some celebrities can separate their personal and professional lives, or while some are able to distinguish their personal failings from their professional accomplishments, Michael insisted that his two lives had no line between them. The same benevolence he demonstrated in songs like We Are the World and Man in the Mirror is the very justification he expressed for his inappropriate behavior with children, his unhealthy appreciation for youth. Yes, he didn't have a regular childhood; yet, a man can enjoy childlike delights without dragging children into it! Again, this is why I won't make the usual Wacko Jacko jokes -- like a child, he's too vulnerable a target.

This detachment from adulthood jades Michael's practical understanding of the opposite sex, too. Oh, and Michael did have an understanding of women, especially in his early career, with songs like Billy Jean and Can't Stop 'Til You Get Enough implying the reckless playboy lifestyle one might expect from a budding pop star. Come on, any man with that kind of stage presence and body control is bound to attract some bedroom eyes -- but the most controversy that ever surrounded Jackson's bedroom involved milk and cookies, for those that remember his infamous interview with Martin Bashir. So, like the stunted child the King of Pop might've been, his romantic platitudes were as empty as a real child's would be, with little real experience to back up his claims or views of women.

Interlude: A Jacko defender may be quick to point out the star's two marriages, and I, too, will point them out here as a contrary footnote to my point, but not to discuss his potential as a man-crush. Rather, Jackson's marriages to Debbie Rowe and Lisa Marie Presley were obviously less about love and more about Michael's self-interests, the former in having children, the latter in attaining an elite status of celebrity. Think about it -- not only did Michael Jackson quickly become the King of Pop, but in that term he married the King's daughter and owned a part of the Beatles' catalog. Financial woes aside, will any star ever have that kind of influence in their industry again?

Global significance? Need I even explain? First of all, Jackson told us, we are the world. Further, his funeral was beheld but a speculated billion people worldwide. I had no idea Michael Jackson was that worthy, so I can't even grasp who else will be so globally mourned. The Pope? By Catholics, maybe, but that's a very specific sect of people. President Obama? His politics and decidedly racial significance in history simply cannot make his passing, either suddenly tragic or naturally inevitable, as universally grief-worthy as we'd like to think. No, only the arts could have this kind of humanity-wide influence, and obviously music in particular. Further, while much ado has been made of Jackson's extravagant funeral, I'll go on record in saying it was necessary if only in proceedings (not specifically in its monetary indulgence), as reps from every realm of social influence were present: politics, athletics, religion, the arts, and within the media of the arts, music, film, dance, and technology. Truly Michael Jackson was a part of no more globally significant event than his own memorial.

Yet, the controversy about its funding taints that ceremony and makes me wonder, if Jacko was such a saint, would he have wanted such a circus wrought in his memory? Wouldn't the money spent on security, facility, and logistics have been better served in the war hospitals and orphanages Michael supposedly frequently toured? That Michael's global image included even the inclination that he would've approved of these festivities instead makes him significant, but in every way that's wrong. Let's start with the man in the mirror, indeed.

The onslaught of controversy has now coughed its way into yet another week, as sister LaToya speculates that Michael's death was the result of foul play, maybe even murder. This is the final dividing line between a man like Billy Mays' potential as a man-crush, versus Michael Jackson. The Pitchman died with a bit of humility and, much like his products, was free of mess. The King of Pop's untimely death is as mysterious as his life -- a phenomenon his family are content to perpetuate for their own ends. Forget about a crush; they're going to beat it . . . to death all over again.

My Man-Crushes 2009, Prelude: Billy Mays, the Pitchman

A few summers ago, I dared list “my man-crushes” (click to read parts one and two), a term I shudder to use, as it perpetuates the slow but steady erosion of masculinity in America. However, in this case, some men are such consummate examples of this brand of gravitas that I don’t mind bending my own self-image in homage to them. This summer, I sought to revise the list through thorough installments -- these guys are my Argentine soul mate or anything, but for me a breath of fresh air against this summer’s pop culture pessimism.

So, while I brainstormed who would remain on the list, who would be removed, and with whom they’d be replaced, Billy Mays came to mind. Now that he has so unexpectedly passed away, I’m aghast at the thought of my new man-crush list becoming an ill omen for its subjects. Of course, that’s not going to stop me from making it -- but know that the concern exists.

Now, while I dare not include Mays posthumously, I will use him as the comprehensive example of what qualifies as a “man-crush” to me, establishing the categories by which future candidates will be judged and honoring his enduring memory at the same time. Also, I should quickly mention that I will only allow myself seven man-crushes at any given time (the perfect number), and that all man-crushes must maintain the characteristics I describe, lest they loose their place on my list. These characteristics are:

1. Contemporary Influence: Anybody that stays up past midnight will understand that Billy Mays is as much a fixture on late night television as is the end table you fixed with Mighty Putty in your living room. However, the urgent necessity of his products transcended afterhours and made him a household name via daytime commercials and his reality show, The Pitchmen. Mays perfectly epitomizes the consummate man-crush’s requirement to remain currently relevant; his products systematically solve life’s greatest problems! First, Oxyclean promised to keep the house clean, then Hercules Hooks assured that anything can be hung in said clean house, and so on. Who knows, if Mays were still us, he may have wrought world peace with an intangible adhesive that binds one to his fellow man . . . and if we acted fast enough, we’d have received that halogen reading lamp at no extra cost.

2. A Practical Understanding of the Opposite Sex: The key word in this requirement is “practical.” My man-crushes model how to fulfill a woman’s basic needs -- and without hyperbole. He doesn’t need a list of rules or the ambiguity of contemporary pop psycho-babble, like claiming men are from Mars, to make a woman happy. Again, consider Billy Mays. His products wipe up spills. Fix broken coffee mugs. In other words, the banes of every housewife’s existence. Billy found a way to defeat these persistent demons effortlessly -- giving women competence in the problem-solving role many relationship experts mindlessly assign to men. In their compartmentalization of the genders, these “experts” actually depowered women. Now, thanks to Billy Mays, a woman can open her own pickle jar. You’re welcome.

3. Global Significance: Everyone has heard the old saying, “Think globally, act locally.” Billy Mays personified this mantra perfectly. First of all, he acted as locally as his very own kitchen (or, at least, a set that simulated it) -- but I’m not even talking about the necessity of his problem-solving products. No, Billy represented a self confidence more piercing and powerful than any Hercules Hook. He embodied an ability to believe in something and share it with conviction , with clear and concise language. His recent interview on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien reveals the intent behind his volume, as he insisted that he wasn’t yelling, but merely projecting -- a lesson many of us should learn. Also, in many of his commercials, Billy wasn’t obscured by a workbench or kitchen island, unless in the instance of a demonstration. Instead, Mays’ blue-collared-shirt-tucked-into-his-belted-khaki-pants-covered torso was unencumbered and in fact coming toward you, hands beckoning outward in an invitation of domestic satisfaction. “Billy Mays here,” he always introduced, as if selling himself first was critical to the selling of his product. He was right.

These three simple categories are the standards by which I’ll hold my man-crushes from now on, and as I eluded, I will replace candidates if they fail to deliver in comparison to another up-‘n-comer. While I shun the term “man-crush” by name, I embrace the concept, as nothing defines real masculinity as the desire to learn from one’s fellow man -- the hope that those held in esteem offer something to the greater good of this global village we live in. Remember, thanks to the Internet and reality television, anybody can be manufactured into a plain old celebrity nowadays . . . and, thankfully, it takes a man’s man to crush these delicate sensibilities.

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.

The Soup

Cockroaches in our new apartment. Moving everything we own just a few hours every night, on a cul-de-sac where folks have no problem triple parking. On Friday, in the rain. Big shots from the county inspecting my staff and work ethic. A fundraiser, a shopping spree for kids, a death in a good friend's family. Last week was one of the most difficult I've experienced in a long time, but fortunately it ended with this:



That's right. Joel McHale, one of my admitted man-crushes, and me. My life is that much more complete.

There, but for the Grace of Dog . . .

First of all, before I dive into my defense of Dog the Bounty Hunter, I insist that I would never condone flagrant use of the n-word, nor do I condone his flagrant use of the n-word. At 52-years-old, I'd hope that a constant target for criticism like Dog would know better than to use that word in public discourse. Now, we can't control his thoughts or ingrained inclinations, and in fact I think our society must accept the fact that the n-word, and a few other terms like it, will only die when its respective generation dies, too. As long as someone's ninety-year-old grandfather, who used the term all the time without reservation or offense some thirty-five years ago, still utters the n-word unapologetically in traffic, even in the confines of his own car, the term and its implications still exist . . . and as much as it isn't right, it's also just as sure.

In fact, arguably, the word isn't as powerful when it's used as much as when it's rebutted and rebuked. I'm not saying that one shouldn't respond to its use, but pure offense without a trace of hope for a better future, without the call to rise about a former generation's misgivings, is contrary to the Civil Rights Movement's dream. It did have a dream, remember? It wasn't content simply perpetuating the nightmare in which it lived with constant reactive retaliation.

Which brings me to Dog the Bounty Hunter, now the hunted, by all accounts. I wrote a bit about Dog earlier this summer in a two-part "My Man-Crushes" LiveJournal entry: " . . . by taking these addicts down hard, calling them 'dope heads' and such, then reminding them of their forlorn families and forsaken religions or cultures, Chapman and co. exposes them to the consequences of criminal life and the benefits of 'going straight.' By working with his family, Dog unwittingly reveals the camaraderie of domesticity and embodies the good cop/bad cop paradigm, a technique many cannot emotionally balance and convey." I stand by my fandom of Dog, because, while criticism of his methods and character abound, few real law enforcement officers can handle what he does, which is essentially clean up their mess. You track and capture hundreds of drug addicts and try to keep a clean mouth, despite your religious beliefs. Dog's straight-edged naysayers would fold like the cheap suits they wear if they strapped on the bounty hunter's boots for one day.

Nevertheless, Chapman should've watched his mouth, and his heart, while talking to his son recently, particularly in the context of his fear about recorded conversations. Interestingly, that's how the now nationally heard soundbyte on the National Enquirer's website begins, with Dog's explanation of how such a leak would ruin his career. While what immediately follows, his disappointingly racist tirade, has attracted the most attention, listen to the longer version of the conversation; Dog reveals some amount of terror at his son Tucker's girlfriend and her previous intimidations, but still offers Tucker a job if only he'd drop the chick. That's the elephant in the room -- Tucker needs the money. Probably wants to be on TV like his brothers Duane Lee and Leland. So, when Daddy tells him to choose between his seven-month romance and his family (his apparent lifeline), he finds a way to do both: exploiting the latter with the plans of the former. Character Assassination 101. How much did the Enquirer pay for that recording, I wonder?

Dog's critics don't care about that, though. That the methods used to record Chapman, and their flagrant use of terms like "redneck," "white trash," and "flamboyant," are just as hateful as the n-word, sans history, don't register with them. Where is this n-word b-word that Dog hates so much, anyway? Shouldn't she demand retribution for such a racist, sexist attack? Or, if we did see her on television, would we realize that she's just like Dog's family -- visually unsettling, and easy to mock? We really couldn't express honest outrage if we actually saw her for the celebrity-stalking dead weight Dog thinks she is, could we? Black white trash, I presume. Ironically, the other story that battled for its fifteen minutes this weekend was Bill Cosby's book about self-depreciating juvenile African American culture. Coincidence?

Circumstances like this are the only way folks from the older generation will realize the bygone nature of their pre-progressive ways, that's for sure. Dog is actually one of the lucky ones to find these traces exposed and hopefully burned away by the searing spotlight. For a man that gets arrested for trying to uphold the law, and now faces accusations of racism despite his Jesus freakishness, I'm not worried for Chapman's career. (He might be right now, though . . .) It's that ninety-year-old grandpa that's the real threat, the strands of racism that still run undiscovered through our roots, the ones we feel completely comfortable ignoring when a celebrity's shortcomings make us feel a bit better about ourselves.

Mock Dog all you want, but by hounding him as you have, Big Media, you're just an awkwardly opened leather jacket and tight pair of black jeans away from being him.