Veruca Assault

As much as my passion -- not to mention my respect -- for the news business has plummeted over the past several years, there is one fact about the job which I never take for granted: for the most part, it requires very little contact with the general public. Field producers are often called upon not only to interact with the average man on the street, but occasionally to placate, cajole, strong-arm, sweet-talk or perform whatever other action might be necessary to get him to say or do what will make their story work so that they can get it done and return to the important business of drinking themselves to death. Show producers on the other hand don't typically have this problem; for the most part -- barring mammoth stories like 9/11, Hurricane Katrina or the Runaway Bride -- we're lucky enough to stay safely locked in an air-conditioned building with hot and cold running coffee, a constant supply of Fritos and the obligatory secret bathroom tucked away in some remote corner where you can sit for hours undisturbed should it become necessary to do so.

One of the more memorable moments from the infancy of my career, in fact, involves a particular morning when I sat with one of my managers in an empty conference room and watched him delete -- one by one -- every single suggestion, rant, complaint and compliment which had been left on the station's viewer comment line. His words to me when the speaker-phone finally proclaimed that the message box was empty: "If they have the time to call us, we don't really want them watching anyway." Although the extreme nature of this point-of-view was specific to the newsroom in which we worked -- you'd have to see the on-air product to truly understand -- for someone who had always believed Sartre's claim about hell being "other people," this was nothing short of a revelation. It was the moment that I felt as if I had finally found a brotherhood which would accept and laud my misanthropy, rather than look upon it with the usual amount of scornful disapproval.

I had found a home among the assholes.

Despite the fact that I'm often accused of proudly exhibiting the interpersonal skills of a 13-year-old runaway, I admit to a certain envy of those who have the ability to deal with people they don't much like without having every interaction with those people end in a fist fight. This is one of the reasons -- one of the many -- that I hold my wife in such high esteem; unlike me, she has the ability not simply to deal with people in a perfunctory fashion, but to actually make it seem as if each individual she interacts with is the only person on the planet. A cynic like myself would see this kind of behavior as a natural talent for manipulation, and would admire it as such; normal people would just say she's incredibly nice. Whether it's the Jedi Mind Trick, genuine concern for others or some combination of the two, her ability to put people at ease and her desire to make them comfortable is preternaturally unparalleled.

This is important, being that she's in the hospitality industry.

Jayne is a manager at one of New York City's most stylish, hip and expensive hotels. This means that for ten hours a day -- sometimes more -- she willingly caters to the every little whim of a clientele which generally sees nothing ridiculous about the entire concept of chihuahuas in handbags. She does this with style, grace and a sense of responsibility that I sometimes find perplexing, and other times flat-out horrifying. There's no shortage of irony to the fact that many of the celebrities I thoroughly despise and openly skewer are the same ones my wife bends over backward for, in an effort to ensure that their bottled water is specifically Fiji and is always chilled to exactly 43-degrees.

Many an evening has Jayne come home, kicked off her high-heels to reveal scarred and inconspicuously bandaged feet, and regaled me with stories of the obscene demands of one spoiled, self-obsessed uber-celeb or another -- and the figurative mountains she and her staff are forced to climb to make sure those demands are met. One hugely popular female singer refuses to allow anyone other than her manager to look at or address her, books a separate suite for her dog and insists that the entire menu be reworked to reflect her incredibly exacting tastes; One young TV star will settle for nothing less than having an entire upper floor to himself, while his staff of handlers is forced to double-up in a pocket of smaller rooms far below. Some throw angry fits if they find unapproved colors of M&Ms in their complimentary Nambe' bowls; some lock the cleaning staff out for a week and leave the room looking as if they'd exploded a hand-grenade under the bed. They have fifteen pages of requirements; they have a thirty person entourage. And they expect nothing less than unwavering compliance from my wife and her staff of underpaid and overwhelmed wage-slaves.

Although heaping the requisite amount of derision on it in private, my wife rationalizes the acceptance of -- and acquiescence to -- such an offensive sense of entitlement by reminding herself and others of the obvious: these people are paying good money for the right to demand anything they want, and it's her job to ensure that they get whatever that might happen to be.

It would be a purely Quixotic gesture to suggest that anyone capable of making such juvenile stipulations -- anyone so psychotically intolerant of even the most infinitesimal inconvenience -- is inherently undeserving of having those stipulations met; of course it's true -- and of course the realization that it's true changes absolutely nothing. It does however bring up a fact which becomes indisputable when you consider that not every celebrity who walks through the doors of my wife's place of work insists that the entire world -- and everyone in it -- accept that reality is his or her own private fantasy and act accordingly.

That fact: making a lot of money doesn't make you a bad person -- making a lot of demands does.

The other night I showed up at the end of Jayne's shift to meet her for dinner. As we walked out the doors and away from the hotel -- safe in the knowledge that in the penthouse high above us, the hugely popular singer's life would be free of the catastrophe of sub-standard chicken salad for at least one more night -- there was an old woman sitting on the sidewalk. She was hunched over silently with her back against a wall.

In her hand was a small sign; it read, "Lost job. Have three children. Need money for food. Anything will help."

There's No "I" in Oprah

***INTERNAL MEMO//NOT FOR RELEASE***

From the Law Offices of Jeremy, Jameson, North and Hartley

Beverly Hills, California

Wednesday, October 25th, 2006

RE: Oprah Winfrey/Harpo Inc. Copyright and Trademark Rulings


We are pleased to report that as of 9:00am PDT this morning, the proposed copyright and trademark implementation initiated on behalf of our client has been ruled official and legally binding (O. Winfrey Petition, Case #0598672, CA Superior Court/Part 53). As discussed, being that a favorable designation from the client (or authorized association with the client) carries with it certain benefits -- both social and financial -- and said designation lends the recipient an unparalleled level of legitimacy with a vast market which would otherwise be untapped by the recipient, from this point forward the following is true: said recipients of this "hallowed blessing" (the official term to be used forthwith) will be considered the intellectual and industrial property of the client and a wholly-owned subsidiary of Harpo Inc.

The current breakdown -- which can and will be adjusted for time, favored status and general rises to and falls from grace -- is as follows:


Oprah's Friend Gayle^(c)(tm) // Gayle King, who for some time has been familiar to the general public strictly by the designation "Oprah's Friend Gayle" will now be known by that name and only that name, both professionally and personally. This will replace any previous monicker which may have been applied to her -- including but not limited to: "Oprah's Girlfriend Gayle," "Oprah's Lesbian Lover Gayle," "That Bitch Who Looks Like Whitney Houston Fresh Out of Rehab," "The Sycophant," and "Who?"

Note: if at any time the client chooses to admit the truth about her sexuality, Oprah's Friend Gayle's^(c)(tm) name will immediately and legally become "Gayle, the Woman Who Makes it Okay for You to Admit that You're a Lesbian and Leave Behind Your Family and Constricting Life in Suburbia, Girlfriend^(c)(tm)."

Oprah's Favorite Chef^(c)(tm) // Henceforth, this copyrighted and trademarked label will be applied to the woman formerly known as Rachael Ray and will be exclusively used by her in all professional and personal interactions. It has been brought to this firm and its client's attention that the beneficiary of this hallowed blessing recently began taping a talk show which bears her erstwhile monicker. As a concession, the client will allow the name of the show to be changed to "The Rachael Ray Show, Which Owes its Entire Existence to the Good Nature of Oprah and the Fact that Miss Ray is, in Fact, Oprah's Favorite Chef." It is also the client's wish that Oprah's Favorite Chef^(c)(tm) be reminded by this firm that her contract remains legally binding and that the client is under no obligation to return her soul.

Oprah's Designer^(c)(tm) // From this point forward -- as a matter of simplification -- the designer who most recently has been known to the general public as "Nate Berkus, Oprah's Designer" will relinquish the proper-name portion of that title, as it barely matters anyway. Oprah's Designer^(c)(tm) will also agree to be addressed simply as "Girlfriend" by the client for the remainder of his existence or until the client tires of his bold use of Feng Shui, whichever comes first.

Barack Obama, Oprah's Candidate^(c)(tm) // The client acknowledges the unfortunate necessity for the future presidential contender currently known as Barack Obama, the Junior Senator from Illinois, to retain his proper name. However, the client wishes for this firm to remind the Senator -- upon his inevitable election -- to whom he owes his political fortunes. The client expects an appointment to a cabinet post in the Obama administration befitting her role in his incredible appeal to middle-class soccer moms across the country; it is her wish that she be granted the post of Secretary of State or higher, as this rise to power will be necessary to facilitate the coming of the Christ-Child and the client's eventual war with the Nazarene.

He Who Has No Name // Henceforth, the author and blasphemer formerly known as James Frey shall cease to exist in a figurative sense and shall be banished from public consciousness.

Tom Cruise // It is the client's prudent decision that her name in no way be associated with Tom Cruise. This decision is legal and binding.

Dr. Phil, the Ingrate^(c)(tm) // The client acknowledges a lapse in oversight which has allowed the one-time recipient of the hallowed blessing to succeed despite having no continued attachment to her. She will not make the same mistake again, and wishes for the firm to take measures to ensure that Dr. Phil, the Ingrate^(c)(tm), his wife and son are all "dealt with" at the firm's earliest convenience.

Caveats and Codicils

The client officially lays copyrighted and trademarked legal claim to the following:

* The term "Girlfriend," and all sassy uses of it.

* Weight-loss of any kind.

* The entire depth of human experience, as the client insists that she is not only understanding of any and all interpersonal situations, but is in fact the progenitor of said situations and can provide unequalled validation to those who experience them subsequently.

Any unauthorized use or application of the preceding will result in immediate legal action, which this firm is empowered to take on behalf of the client. Punishment will be swift and without mercy.

Day 6

A linguist once wrote that Cellar Door is the most beautiful two-word combination in the English language.

I beg to differ.

The most beautiful two-words in any language, are Jack Bauer.

The trailer for the new season of 24 is finally here.

The New Black

Now in stores, My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade.

Thankfully, it's everything I had hoped it would be; namely, it's the first rock album in quite awhile -- certainly since the iPod came to cultural prominence -- that I've purchased and immediately listened to in its entirety over and over.

It's clever without being whiny; ambitious without being overly self-indulgent; powerful without being pretentious. It's both brash and brainy.

It pays homage to everything from Pink Floyd's The Wall, to Queen's A Night at the Opera to The Beatles Sgt. Pepper to -- of all glorious things -- Cabaret (complete with a guest appearance by Liza Minnelli).

Mostly though, it marks the ascendency of what was once a pretty good band to one that can now count themselves among some of the best the genre has had to offer throughout the decades.

It's basically a really fucking great record.

Frak Yeah!

I never thought I'd do something this silly here, but you're going to have to indulge my nerdgasm over this week's episode of Battlestar Galactica. Not only was it the single best episode of the best show on television, it contained the absolute goddamned most bad-ass action sequence I've ever seen on the small screen.

The scene probably requires a little bit of set-up, but I'm not going to bother -- other than to say that it involves a surprising and drastic measure taken during an astonishing rescue mission.

This one is basically for my own benefit and the benefit of all the fans of this spectacular show.

Watch and be amazed.

And Now, A Special Sunday Morning Message for Hollywood from Chez's Evil Twin, Garth*

Alright, I'm gonna try and keep this clean since -- you know -- it's Sunday. I know that doesn't mean anything to you pagan, child-sacrificing fuckers out there in La-La Land, but it still means something to the rest of us God-fearing folk.

Listen...

You guys have been bitching up a storm recently about the fact that nobody goes to the movies anymore. Box office receipts are down; audiences are apathetic; no one seems to appreciate the joyous communal experience of gathering at the local theater with every single living soul within a twenty mile radius to take in whatever blockbuster you've spent millions of advertising dollars shoving down our throats beginning six months prior to the opening of the fucking thing -- uh, sorry freakin' thing.

I'm here to tell you why that is.

On your end, yeah, I'm sorry to break it to you but the product usually sucks. For every one truly decent movie you clowns are churning out between putting your faces into big piles of cocaine on your desks -- there are twenty that I wouldn't watch if you strapped me to a chair and held my eyes open like in that Clockwork Orange Julius movie or whatever the hell it was called. I mean DEAR GOD -- you douchebags haven't had a consistent string of original ideas since the 70s; now everything's either a sequel or a two-hour version of a half-hour TV show -- or worse, a fucking... oops... a freakin' five minute sketch on Saturday Night Live. By the way, don't even bother calling 90% of those Will Ferrell vehicles "new." That's horseshit and you know it. They're all the same movie created around the same character in a different costume. While you're at it, how about declaring a moratorium on computer-animated movies with talking anything. Cars, animals, shrubbery, toilets, toys, dildos, Walter Fucking Mondale -- whatever. We see them for what they are: cynical attempts to get our ADD-medicated kids to drag our beleaguered asses to the theaters.

You're probably single-handedly responsible for more child murders in this country than post-partum depression.

So...

After a dismal, unmemorable movie year filled with the kind of dreck I just described, what have you given us to look forward to?

A movie that literally sounds like a freakin' joke on Family Guy:

Transformers: A Michael Bay Film.

Hold on a second.

(Begins laughing out loud to the point where he can't catch his breath. This goes on for several minutes.)

HOLY SHIT.

What the hell were you people thinking?

Did you not know that the trailer alone was gonna provoke unrestrained laughter from the audience? This is a live-action version of the stupidest cartoon ever, with a budget the size of the gross national product of the Netherlands, directed by the unmitigated hack who foisted Bad Boys 2 and The Island on us.

Who green-lit this shit?

GOD, it makes my fucking brain hurt.

Fuck you Hollywood.

Just fuck you.

(Shakes his head and walks away for a moment, grunting with displeasure -- before finally returning.)

Okay, now on to another important reason no one's going to the movies anymore -- and unfortunately for you Hollywood, this is something you can't control.

So last night I went to see The Departed -- a decent movie to be sure, although quite frankly it was hard for me to tell, what with the fucking bitch sitting two seats over from me talking on her cell phone; the 107-year-old man wandering the aisles of the sold-out show calling out to his family trying to locate them in the middle of the fucking movie; the line around the goddamned block to buy an eight-dollar bucket of stale popcorn; the Upper East Side JAP stereotype to my right reacting with requisite shock to every single obvious plot twist; the eight-foot-tall center for the Knicks sitting directly in front of my wife; and the piece-de-fucking-resistance: waiting in line for ten minutes to get into the bathroom following the show -- then being shoved into the urinal by a blind man trying to get into one of the stalls.

In case I didn't make myself clear, that would be A BLIND MAN AT A FUCKING MOVIE.

Remember the old days, when you used to sell us on how those big productions you were cranking out just had to be experienced on the big screen to be fully appreciated?

Well guess what you assholes -- this was the first time that my wife the porn star and I walked out of a fucking theater and looked at each other saying, "We really need to see that at home on our big-screen TV with the home-theater surround-sound to get the full effect."

Our home: where it's just two very happy people sitting on the comfortable couch with a front-row seat, great food and drink, a bathroom ten steps away -- and not another fucking person in sight.

Seriously Hollywood, follow Soderbergh's example and release movies on DVD and Pay-Per-View the same date you release them in the theaters -- that way most of us can skip the fucking nightmarish 9th circle of hell that is going to a movie at the theater these days.

Please?

If I give you some cocaine?

(*As always, the views and opinions of Garth do not necessarily represent those of Chez -- who in fact has a great respect for the elderly, the blind, JAP stereotypes, the New York Knicks and Walter Mondale.)

The Final Act

A while back I wrote about an ill-fated trip to Livingston, Texas (Things to Do in Texas When You're Dead, 8/25/06) to interview a death row inmate named Justin Fuller. Despite all of the effort put into that excruciating day-trip, it ended futilely, with a tape of little more than digital static -- the result of an accident involving the camera, which happened before my crew and I even got out of the airport in Houston.

Fuller was executed a little more than 24 hours after our pointless interview.

What I neglected to mention, is that the show -- as always -- must go on.

We still needed to complete our story on lethal injection, which meant that we returned to the Polunsky Unit's Death Row two weeks later. This time we interviewed a young inmate named Michael Dewayne Johnson, and strictly from the somewhat soulless perspective of a television news producer -- I was glad we did.

Johnson was, as I remarked to my anchor after the interview, "our star."

He was fresh-faced and attractive.

He was funny, fiery and friendly.

He was smart, charismatic and eminently likable.

What was most frightening however, is that he was above all believable. During the interview, Michael Johnson produced a signed affidavit -- a confession that he claimed proved the assertion that he'd been making in court for almost ten years: that his accomplice shot a 27-year-old gas station attendant in 1995, and that he was sitting in the car the entire time and knew nothing of what was happening until he heard the gun go off. That accomplice, a man named David Vest, rolled on Johnson while in custody and offered up his friend as the shooter in exchange for an eight year prison sentence (a deal I thought to be unbelievably inequitable, regardless of who pulled the trigger).

The bottom line is that I'm well aware of the banality -- even the likability -- of evil; however, my anchor and I left death row that day burying a certain amount of our well-worn cynicism and truly wanting to believe the man we'd just spent a half-hour talking to through a thick sheet of glass.

That was one month ago.

This morning Michael Dewayne Johnson is dead.

He didn't however die at the hands of Texas's executioner -- he died at the hands of himself.

Just fifteen hours before he was scheduled to be taken to the death chamber where a cocktail of chemicals would be pumped into his body, ending his life -- he pulled a hidden metal blade from somewhere in his cell and slashed his own throat and his own wrists.

Guards say that just moments before, he had been upbeat and jovial -- cracking jokes and showing off his trademark boyishly mischevious grin.

In his final moments, as his life ebbed out of him and onto the floor of his tiny windowless cell -- he scrawled a message on the wall in his own blood.

That final, gory epitaph read simply, "I didn't shoot him."