By now, everybody has seen the footage of Michael Richards losing it on stage, and repeatedly using racist terms to strike back at a heckler.
Bearing in mind that I am a fiction writer and a big fan of grand conspiracy theories, let me be the first to say that I don't believe this at all. I think it's a work.
Once upon a time, long long ago, Michael Richards was on a show called Fridays. It was a rip-off of Saturday Night Live that had a few good moments before going away for good. On one episode of Fridays, the guest host was Andy Kaufman, who broke character during a skit and was a complete jackass to Richards. The joke was that it was a planned break, but only Richards and Kaufman knew about it, and they fooled everybody including the other actors, studio crew, and audience.
Kaufman, of course, was famous for a bizarre brand of comedy that shocked, offended, and pissed off almost everybody who ever saw him perform. He filmed part of his TV special out of focus just to mess with viewers. He claimed to have become born-again and have married a Christian singer. He wrestled women, and on a famous episode of David Letterman's show, he got slapped around by wrestler Jerry "The King" Lawler, in an angle that no one ever knew was real until long after Kaufman's death.
Everything that Kaufman did was designed to provoke a reaction from people. He'd scream at people, or take a whole audience out for milk and cookies simply because that's what people weren't expecting. That's why people still remember him, and not other comedians who were more famous at the time (such as Freddie Prinze).
Back in the present, Michael Richards has no career at all other than picking up checks for "Seinfeld". He goes on stage to do stand-up comedy, something he hasn't done successfully in years. He's harassed by an extremely literate heckler, slams him with racial slurs, and then gets into an argument with him while the heckler eloquently points out all sorts of things about Richards that a drunken heckler probably wouldn't. Someone is filming the show with a handheld camera for some reason, and that makes the rounds of media.
And all of this takes place on the eve of the Seinfeld Season 7 DVD release. And also the day before Jerry Seinfeld is scheduled to make a rare public appearance.
On Letterman.
That's some fearful symmetry, folks.
I'm saying the whole thing was a work. Why is Richards doing stand up? Why would somebody tape it? How well-prepared was that heckler? Richards tries to defuse the situation by talking about how shocking it was, but loses his nerve. What would he have to lose?
Notoriety can be much more important to some people than respectability.
There's something I'm a bit depressed about. I'm 36, and I've never seen a car explode. It happens all the time on TV and in movies, but it's never happened when I was around. It's quite peculiar.
My MP3 player has about 100 songs on it at any given moment. Why, then, does it play Loverboy's "Hot Girls In Love" every single time I turn it on and listen more than 5 minutes?
We now have microwave tacos, and awesome omelette sandwiches. I have a little test I like to run on a food before I try it. If I look at a food and the first thing I think is that Elvis would have liked it, I pass.
Why do they always advertise radio stations on billboards with pictures of the morning DJs? "You know, I think I'll listen to 97.3, honey. Their morning DJ is a short, bald man wearing sunglasses and leaning into the camera. He looks cool. I'll bet his musical tastes are quite similar to mine, since he looks like some crotchety old guy who used to roadie for Nazareth and Molly Hatchet."
Reid's Household Tips: Q: I spilled milk on my shag carpet, what should I do? A: Move.
The Post Office will sell you collectible stamps, with baseball players, or motorcycles, or superheroes on them. So the USPS is basically manufacturing a product to sell you that they hope you don't use? That's like trying to get you to cash your paycheck in money you're just going to hang on your wall.
They should have a combination fax machine/shredder. Most of the crap you get faxed to you, you don't need anyway.
We rescued her in 1991, and she was a part of my life for fifteen years. She was sweet and kind and soft, a dog who honored me with her loyalty and love. For ten years, she was our constant companion. We'd make her the comfiest beds we could imagine, and still wake up with her curled up at our feet. If you fell asleep on the couch, you knew she'd be right there beside you when you woke up.
Five years ago, we moved back to Tyler and couldn't take Sammie with us in the rent house. The thought of putting her into a shelter just tore me up, and I knew that we weren't going to find anybody to take care of a ten-year old dog. I sat and cried, trying to think of some way that would be good for Sammie without having to put her down. Luckily, my mom and dad took her and kept her.
I knew she'd never have a better home for her retirement years than with my folks. We Kerr's are dog people, obviously. They kept her retirement years safe and comfortable, and loved, and I'll always be grateful for that.
She was a good dog, the kind of pet that people think of when they think of their favorite dogs. She was sweet, and loyal, and would have done anything to be a part of our pack. All she wanted was a bit of kibble, a scratch behind the ears, and a place to lay down where she could check up on us. If there was more than one person in the house and they were separated, she'd walk from room to room to make sure all of us were okay. She had smooth fur and soft eyes, and loved to romp and play.
Sammie had a stroke last night, and had to be put down. She's buried out behind my grandmother's house. I cried again for her last night, thankful for the time she spent with me, thankful for every table scrap I shared with her, every afternoon we played, and every night I'd wake up in bed with her laying on my feet.
Sammie was a good dog. The best.
A Dog's Prayer
Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between the blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.
Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footsteps falls upon my waiting ear.
When it is cold and wet, please take me inside, for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements. And I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth. Though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land, for you are my god and I am your devoted worshiper.
Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.
And, beloved master, should the great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest - and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands.
I saw a very emotional moment last night during the election coverage, they had a camera on President Bush when Karl Rove was caught breaking the news to him. He leaned in and whispered that the Democrats had taken the House, and a concerned Bush turned and asked "Rovey, does that mean I'm going to have to move?"
Britney Spears has had a moment of clarity, and filed for divorce from K-Fed Yo. Her new, barely-named son is less than two months old. It's very strange. I've heard of post partum depression, but I've never heard of any situation where someone got post partum intellgence.
Obvious spoiler alert for everybody who hasn't watched the show this week, as always.
With this week's episode, the tradition of killing off characters on Desperate Housewives just to end a bad storyline continues. The Babymomma bit it this week, killed off by Roseanne's sister.
With her death, that officially ends the tug-of-war over Tom with Lynette. It seems as if they've heard our outcries about how badly the second season of DH sucked. Let's examine last year's major plotlines, and see what's happened since Marc Cherry returned to hopefully save the show.
Gaby and Carlos want a baby. After Gaby lost hers, Xiao-Mei was serving as a surrogate mother. The baby she delivered wasn't theirs, so they gave it up in favor if a divorce. Xiao-Mei is gone, and neither of them mentions having a baby anymore.
Susan gets popular. Susan won back Mike the plumber, then wound up sleeping with her ex-husband. Mike's just coming out of a coma under the thrall of Edie, and the ex-husband hasn't been seen all year. She's quickly moved on to the British guy. Edie was also engaged to Susan's ex last year, and that's never mentioned either.
Bree is involved with another crazy man, and becomes an alcoholic. Bree continued her string of losers by hooking up with the crazy killer pharmacist, then letting him die. She finished out the season by becoming an alcoholic, spending an episode in treatment, and then throwing her son out on the streets. Season three? She marries a different, better actor playing a crazy guy, and goes and picks her son up from the street. He's still weird, but they don't mention the abandonment again, as he's back to his old only-slighty disruptful self, and the alcoholism magically goes away.
The Applewhites and their killer retarded ice-cream loving son. Alfre Woodard's big plotline was so universally despised, there were entire episodes last year where she and her family didn't even appear. She's gone, and except for a brief mention by Bree's daughter, nobody's noticed. The Applewhite's son, killed by cops, is just another forgotten person killed on Wysteria Lane. The body count has got to be over a dozen so far.
Paul and the plumber's boy. We spent a whole year finding out that Mike had a son, and he was being kept by Paul Young. The year ends up with Paul thrown in jail for the murder of the sister of the woman he actually killed, and Zach kills his real grandfather to inherit all of his money. And that's it. We haven't seen them or heard from them since, even though Edie is supposed to be selling their house.
Lynette and Tom go to work. Lynette spent all of last season getting Tom a job, and then making him lose it. She was left in a horrible situation at work, with her boss pretty much forcing Tom out. Everything seems fine this year, though, because they've been saddled with the Babymomma plotline.
So now, we've got a hard restart for season three.
As you probably know, I'm doing national Novel Writing Month this year. Here's a sample of the first few pages of my valiant attempt, "The Final 48, or The Five People I'm Going To Meet In Hell."
Between work, football play-by-play, and National Novel Writing Month, this month will be a bit of a stretch for me, so I may not post here as often. I do plan to post at least some of my NaNoWriMo project here, though, and I'll still drop in from time to time.
This week's line of the week is from Jarrett Hill.
"I went to a Halloween haunted house. They had Jimmy Fallon there doing standup. It was horrifying."
I'd like to thank all of you who voted for my NaNoWriMo project this year. It was really close, and "The Final 48, or The Five People I'm Going To Meet In Hell" won by a single vote. I've already done better in one day (2200 words) than all of last year (112 words). I'll post some of it to this site later.
Bob Seger is going to tour, but he'll be playing his new stuff. Sounds great! I love to hear a guy with a thirty-year catalog of quality songs going on tour committed to a setlist that'll leave us not worrying about taking a bathroom break. Seriously, I know you're proud of the new stuff. Just give us a few of them, and sell the album at a discount at the concert. We'll hear the classics and walk off with the new one.
I got my daughter a dog, a beagle. Her pound name was Harriet, but we decided to call her Hazel. I've decided pretty much any name that makes you think of an old lady with a Minnie Pearl hat on is a good name for a beagle.
A commercial for "The Ultimate Can Opener" came on. It claimed the product would be the best can opener I ever used. Is that something most people keep stats on? I mean, I've got a top five, but it hasn't been updated in a while. Currently, my favorite can opener ever was from a bed and breakfast in Pocatello, Idaho. Beat that!
When I see "Coach Season I On DVD: Limited Edition", I agree. It's limited for a good, common-sense reason.
I saw a guy with an orange mohawk and an "aeropostale" shirt. You normally only see that kind of identity confusion in gay black Republicans.
