Friday, October 15, 2004
Why do they call it Good Friday? Shouldn't it be Bad Friday? or Hard Luck Friday? Think about it. What happened on that day? Jesus got arrested. What's 'good' about that?
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Maybe I’m insensitive. Maybe I’m a cynic. Perhaps life has beaten me down so much that I’m incapable of feeling anything. Or maybe I’m just not an idiot. But the fact of the matter is, Christopher (Superman) Reeve died and I don’t give a shit.
All over the media there’s glowing reports of this “real life Superman” and his heroic struggle to find a cure for spinal cord injury. Believe me, I respect that he used his time to help raise awareness and money for spinal cord research. Lord knows he could have just lay in bed, shitting in a bag, wishing to God he could experience a boner again. But Reeve didn’t. He got out there, went to benefits, made documentaries, and fought like a motherfucker for stem cell research.
I applaud him for that. What I don’t applaud is that he never once bothered to get up off his ass to do it.
Bad Joke. Like I said, I’m insensitive.
I was also a fan of the Superman movies. When I was eight, they were a hell of a thing. One was a fine epic. Two was a kick-ass romp. Three was a bizarre joke. Four was a retarded cousin to the bad joke that was number Three, except without Richard Prior. Which maybe was not such a bad thing.
I also liked Deathtrap. When I was a kid, everyone in the neighborhood was agog at the idea that Superman kissed another man in that movie. Looking back, you could chalk it up to adolescent curiosity about homosexuality. I chalk it up to all the kids in my neighborhood being a bunch of fags.
Street Smart was pretty good. No, it’s not that reality show where they interview people on the street to show how stupid most people are. This was the movie that put Morgan Freeman on the map after years of being ignored for his fine work on The Electric Company. Reeve played a reporter who fakes a story about street life, gaining him the unwanted attention of Freeman, who in an inspired bit of casting, played a pimp. Or a street thug. I can’t remember which. Doesn’t matter. It was the first time Hollywood thought to cast a black guy as a street hustler. Freeman got an Oscar nod, I think. Reeve got a big cheque, which he invested in a horse. The rest is history.
Or should I say, the rest is his story. The story about how he fell off that horse and broke his neck. Then a bunch of insensitive and incompetent doctors revived him to a life of paralysis, wheezing, and gracious smiles from fans and well-wishers, all of whom were saying “God, you’re a real-life Superman”, but were thinking “God, you poor son of a bitch.”
Anyhow, last weekend the news came out that Reeve had died. The media snapped into action with tributes and specials. Barbara Walters ran some interviews with Reeve. Through all the tributes and the almost constant repetition of the phrase “Real-Life Superman”, no one came out and said how lucky he was to have finally died. No more colostomy bag, no more nights sitting up wondering why he didn’t go out for groceries instead of on that fateful horse ride, no more longing to once again touch his lovely wife’s breasts.
The reason I say I don’t give a shit is the truth of the matter is, Reeve brought it all on himself. Just like JFK Jr., who’s “tragic” death was the result of him foolishly flying into a storm, Reeve’s paralysis and subsequent passing at the “young” age of fifty-two was the result of his choice to play Superman.
Think about it. Had he turned down the role, he still would have become a star. Let’s not forget that “Somewhere in Time” was just around the corner. Granted he would have been a regular, ordinary “star”, not the “Mega-Star” he became after taking the world by storm as Superman.
In the hierarchy of celebrity, only Mega-Stars can afford horses. Regular stars have to make do with the horses they have at the grocery store. You know the one’s I mean. When we were kids they cost a nickel. Now they cost a buck and a half.
Had Reeve been a regular star, and not a Mega Star (or as they call them in Japan Super-Mega-Star) he never would have gotten on that horse.
Serves you right, Supe. I hope hell’s hot. That’s where suicides go. And by taking on the role of Superman, you Mr. Reeve, committed suicide.
All over the media there’s glowing reports of this “real life Superman” and his heroic struggle to find a cure for spinal cord injury. Believe me, I respect that he used his time to help raise awareness and money for spinal cord research. Lord knows he could have just lay in bed, shitting in a bag, wishing to God he could experience a boner again. But Reeve didn’t. He got out there, went to benefits, made documentaries, and fought like a motherfucker for stem cell research.
I applaud him for that. What I don’t applaud is that he never once bothered to get up off his ass to do it.
Bad Joke. Like I said, I’m insensitive.
I was also a fan of the Superman movies. When I was eight, they were a hell of a thing. One was a fine epic. Two was a kick-ass romp. Three was a bizarre joke. Four was a retarded cousin to the bad joke that was number Three, except without Richard Prior. Which maybe was not such a bad thing.
I also liked Deathtrap. When I was a kid, everyone in the neighborhood was agog at the idea that Superman kissed another man in that movie. Looking back, you could chalk it up to adolescent curiosity about homosexuality. I chalk it up to all the kids in my neighborhood being a bunch of fags.
Street Smart was pretty good. No, it’s not that reality show where they interview people on the street to show how stupid most people are. This was the movie that put Morgan Freeman on the map after years of being ignored for his fine work on The Electric Company. Reeve played a reporter who fakes a story about street life, gaining him the unwanted attention of Freeman, who in an inspired bit of casting, played a pimp. Or a street thug. I can’t remember which. Doesn’t matter. It was the first time Hollywood thought to cast a black guy as a street hustler. Freeman got an Oscar nod, I think. Reeve got a big cheque, which he invested in a horse. The rest is history.
Or should I say, the rest is his story. The story about how he fell off that horse and broke his neck. Then a bunch of insensitive and incompetent doctors revived him to a life of paralysis, wheezing, and gracious smiles from fans and well-wishers, all of whom were saying “God, you’re a real-life Superman”, but were thinking “God, you poor son of a bitch.”
Anyhow, last weekend the news came out that Reeve had died. The media snapped into action with tributes and specials. Barbara Walters ran some interviews with Reeve. Through all the tributes and the almost constant repetition of the phrase “Real-Life Superman”, no one came out and said how lucky he was to have finally died. No more colostomy bag, no more nights sitting up wondering why he didn’t go out for groceries instead of on that fateful horse ride, no more longing to once again touch his lovely wife’s breasts.
The reason I say I don’t give a shit is the truth of the matter is, Reeve brought it all on himself. Just like JFK Jr., who’s “tragic” death was the result of him foolishly flying into a storm, Reeve’s paralysis and subsequent passing at the “young” age of fifty-two was the result of his choice to play Superman.
Think about it. Had he turned down the role, he still would have become a star. Let’s not forget that “Somewhere in Time” was just around the corner. Granted he would have been a regular, ordinary “star”, not the “Mega-Star” he became after taking the world by storm as Superman.
In the hierarchy of celebrity, only Mega-Stars can afford horses. Regular stars have to make do with the horses they have at the grocery store. You know the one’s I mean. When we were kids they cost a nickel. Now they cost a buck and a half.
Had Reeve been a regular star, and not a Mega Star (or as they call them in Japan Super-Mega-Star) he never would have gotten on that horse.
Serves you right, Supe. I hope hell’s hot. That’s where suicides go. And by taking on the role of Superman, you Mr. Reeve, committed suicide.
