Not Rockin'

So I have finally slogged my way through "Bridge of Sighs," a wonderful but insanely long book by Richard Russo, and I did it before the new year, as I had hoped to. So you can tell how exciting the new year was in Chez Kahler. It was so exciting Ray fell asleep at nine, apologizing as he drifted in and out of the Land of Nod.

Once I finished the book, however, I felt the need to do something more traditional than start reading another book ("The Wrecking Crew," by Thomas Frank, and it is sort of an angry/smart recounting of things I already pretty much know/figured out (i.e. marketing has helped destroy the American way of life being one)). So I said, "Sorry Bub," to Ray and flipped on the TV. Besides, I needed something to drown out the sound of explosions coming from redneck neighbors who are on our every flank. It was, at the risk of sounding completely insensitive, like a mini-Gaza Strip. As Ray and I moved stuff out of my apartment, the streets were littered with debris from M80s and screamers and whatnot. Also, we heard not a single siren last night. Way to keep on top of illegal fireworks usage, law enforcement.

So, pinned down in the house, with very very little worth watching on (nothing, really), I flipped channels. I caught some South Park. Boy was I surprised the other day when I found out one of the creators of that show got married. I had it on good authority (a former coworker's aunt who lives on their block in L.A.) that the two guys lived together and were gay together. And I suppose it made sense, in a small way, with their wearing dresses to whatever red carpet event that that was, and the whole "big gay Al" episode call for tolerance. I kind of looked on their work as a PoMo-homo kind of thing, where the very shrill libertarianism was the cry of today's liberated gay male, just liberated enough to be exactly the same kind of selfish and caustic comedian as all the other (straight) guys, but with more subversive messages. I mean, they apparently were living together and you never heard about them making out with starlets at the Viper Room.

Well, I guess Lori's aunt was wrong. Maybe working in showbusiness resets your Gaydar to a lower default point, just as attending a hardline church can cast a Christian sheen on a boy's interest in musicals and the performance arts as just a basic desire to use one's talents for spreading the Good News. How a Christian is supposed to use fame and wealth as a tool of evangelism for a religion whose central figure spurned both is something I wonder about. So I think people like Jessica Simpson are pharisees, so what?

Speaking of people who are deeply deluded, I happened to catch Dick Clarke's Rockin' New Year's Eve Party on TV. It has been handed over to Ryan Seacrest, who is super annoying. "OMG you guys, this party is so awesome!" Seacrest says. "It is just amazing!" OMG, Seacrest, why don't you tell us another 100 times while standing there with the Jonas Brothers, some Demi who is not Demi Moore, and what appeared to be a 13-year-old girl who was almost 7 feet tall. She's probably 5'6", since all TV types are pocket-sized, but I swear. Oh, she is Taylor Swift and she is 5'11", the same height as my mom, a little taller than me. I could totally take Ryan Seacrest and the eensy little brothers, though my knees might get chewed.

So there wasn't much to look at on Seacrest's platform of annoying young people standing there in the cold. !BUT! back in the studio was Dick Clarke, who had a stroke or something a couple of years ago and boldly or deludedly decided to get back in front of the camera. Holy cow.

This guy, Dick Clarke, was once the punchline for jokes about how he never aged, how he seemed preternaturally preserved as the years went by, looking the same in the 1950s as the 1990s. Well, those jokes are officially suspended for awkwardness. Clarke had a real speaking disability, which maybe he acknowledged in the beginning of the show, but his can-do attitude prevailed. He couldn't stop talking about how much he loved the annual party at Times Square, blah blah blah, all I saw was that his face looked ... different. I'm not necessarily talking surgery, but there was something about the combination of frozen muscles and pancake makeup that just gave him a very grim cast. His mouth was different, and the way it moved was kind of mesmerizing. It's not like anyone is able to move the top part of their mouth when they talk, but most people look like it is a little bit in motion when they are jawboning. Not Dick Clarke.

It was either the ballsiest thing this guy has ever done or he is flat out deluded. Because the contrast with his old self was so pronounced. Although early on I had the ungenerous thought that this was creepy, now I'm like, that's right, Dick Clarke, you go on with your stroked-out self! People need to see this stuff, this is reality, this is how it is. So Hollywood tried to apply some varnish, this was unshellackable at a very primal level (and the lacquer itself was disturbing). Pussycat Dolls, you intolerable stereotypes, take a good look, that is where you're headed. We're all going there. Hollywood can't hide it all. It was like the most unintentional disability-rights statement ever.

Also, Dick Clarke made out with a woman who must have been his wife. She was totally cute, in an old lady way, with a yellow bun of hair on her head like I Dream of Jeannie. Not only is it rare to see a televised image of old people macking, old and disabled people were macking! Hold the phone! I could feel America shudder, and I loved it! Nothing I can say would ever be as subversive as that.

Rock on, DC. I'm not sure what the intention was there, but hey, if you didn't know you had to be brave then I'd have to say you're a better person than I. Dumber, to a significant extent, but better nonetheless.