S U C K

"a fish, a barrel, and a smoking gun"
for 16 July 1998. Updated every WEEKDAY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hit & Run CXL

 

[my first experience with an MRI.  i'll tell ya all about it.]


From: Duke of URL
Sent: Sunday, 7:32 p.m.,
     12 July 1998
To: Suck Team
Subject: My Career as Editor
      of The New Yorker

We are about to have a Suck
staff meeting and "Taffy
Pull." I get a message on my
shoe phone to call Si
Newhouse. I call him. He just
pinched a loaf, wants me to
flush his toilet. I race home
and to the airport for a 12:45
plane to NY. So much for our
team high jinks. Also for our
planned weekend purple-nurple
and Indian-burn tourney.


Saturday, 11 a.m. EDT.
I meet Si at
his apartment. Rice
paper shades with a
calligraphy pattern (Lao-Tzu's
Tao Te Ching) block out the
late morning light. I read a
few lines in fluent Mandarin.
Si's impressed. Low music and
chilled champagne. We talk for
a couple hours. One thing
leads to another.

Afterward,
I'm running my fingers through
Si's chest hair (surprisingly
downy), and he says, How would
you react if I offered you X?
I say, Are you offering me the
job? He says, What would you
do for it? I say, Hand me the
phone. A couple calls later,
and the heads of all my
immediate family members are
on their way to Si's place. Si
nods appreciatively. I'm
catching on to the game.

Si
says, All work and no play....
Let me call you up a couple
bims.

Things get rough. It's
hazy, there's a lot of rock.
Something happens to one of
the girls. Si says, Don't
sweat it. He can hush it up.


He makes a proposal. I say,
That sounds fine. I
pusillanimously accept, but I
promised Willie Brown (mayor,
SF) I'd check with him before
definitely accepting, and I
need a night to sleep this
thing off. He says, Fine.


Later, I get back to the hotel
room, and there's a message:
Call Si Newhouse. I call, and
he says, I'm starting to feel
reluctant. I think it would be
better to call it off. No
apology
.

After some slurred
pleading, I say, If it's the
delay, fine, I accept your
offer. Whatever offer. If it's
this Web site they've got me
on, I mean, Holy Jesus, it's
nothing to me. I know the
Web's finished, and I want
out.

He says, No, it's
Wolcott, he's running all over
town
saying Suck's rants are
as tired as Village Voice
chestnuts. I can't have that
kind of heat on my operations.

I say, Wolcott? That
skylarking lard bucket? He's
been stinking up the joint for
years. What kinda muscle has
he got? He says, Sorry, J.,
he's a made guy. Through his
daddy and all, but he's still
a made guy. Besides, I need
you to go to Miami.

On
reflection (about two minutes
of reflection), I realize I
won't be coming back from
Miami.

 

[it's sort of like being locked inside a airplane overhead bin.  though that's never happened to me.]

Ah, the first time! You're

callow and clumsy and woefully

sincere, but it doesn't even

matter because you're so happy

just to be experiencing the rush

of something completely new. The

second time, you start

developing a sense of timing, a

few theatrical touches designed

to make your performance more

memorable for all involved. By

the third go-round, your

repertoire of tricks and

flourishes has gotten so

sophisticated it rivals that of

a veteran courtesan: You could

be faking it or not faking it,

and no one would know the

difference. Ultimately, however,

it doesn't really matter if

Diane and Mike are the virginal

vessels of unsullied

exhibitionism that they purport

to be or just a couple of

auto-pimping flauntrepreneurs,

well-drilled in the mechanics of

pubic relations. Either way, Our

First Time, the public

deflowering Diane and Mike have

scheduled for cybercast in a few

weeks, is still the most

compelling demo of Web-based

communal voyeurism that we've

yet seen. In marrying

recreational surveillance with

the concept of appointment

viewing - we're certainly not

going to be watching Jennifer

Ringley fold her laundry on 4

August at 6 p.m. PDT

- it points the

way toward a promising

pay-per-spew future that many

are already parodying and even

more, no doubt, are using as the

foundation for their latest

business-plan pipe schemes. But

while Our First Anal Sex, the

first of the knockoff sites,

looks like a parody, it also ups

the ante for customer service.

If Mike hopes to keep up his hit

count, he'd better top off that

first score with a back door

extra point.

 

[except that there is this incredible hammering sound, like a jackhammer on a coffin.]

Speaking of a sex act that, in

certain circles, is called

"laying down the law," we've

noticed that GOP leaders in

Congress are preparing to plug

President Clinton's very quiet

executive order of last month

ensuring no job discrimination

against gays in federal

government. GOP homophobia is

OUT there, baby! Only weeks ago,

Texas Republicans barred the Log

Cabin Republicans from

exhibiting at its convention

(party spokesman Robert Black

hastened to reassure

conventioneers that GOP elephant

nipple rings and Judy Garland

squeezebags would still be

available at most exhibition

booths); meanwhile, Great

Thinker Trent Lott compared gays

to kleptomaniacs (basing his

homophobic cringing on the

Bible, which includes law

esoterica - outlawing the eating

of pork, for example - that

makes Mississippi's state laws

look like the Amsterdam public

charter); and James Hormel's

nomination to the ambassadorship

in Luxembourg is still in Senate

purgatory because of the

nominee's orificial preference.

Adding insult to injury, the

Federal Trade Commission has

launched an all-out assault on

the Hormel family's signature

meat byproduct. But there may be

more than one way to put the "G"

in GOP. With disclosures that

the Queer Nation spans from Newt

Gingrich's family tree to

William F. Buckley's dinner A

list to the most stalwart of

Republican Congressmen to city

halls and state legislatures all

over the place, even Orrin Hatch

has summoned the sense to get

out of the missionary position.

Well, there's a first time for

everything.

 

[and the hardest part is trying not to itch.  tough when the thing is vibrating and drafty. like being dead, but different. ]

Despite the best efforts of CBS

to give the show a quiet, last

rites in the nursing home, the

Family Matters finale continues

to draw encomia, in shades both

arch and unfunny. In addition to

providing a likely hiding place

for all those black viewers who

turned up their noses at

Seinfeld, this

famous-for-being-obscure show

was a fascinating case study of

the rich fungi that grow in the

shadows of TV decadence. Sitcom

senescence tends to bring out

the kind of desperate creative

energy witnessed in the last

season of Roseanne. It manifests

itself in recklessly conceived

wacky characters, graying high

school students, wig-wearing

evil twins, and, if you're really

lucky, appearances by Ted

McGinley - the one-man TV

killing machine whose

scythe-swinging presence

presaged the deaths of Happy

Days, Dynasty and Married ... with Children.

The innovation of

Family Matters was

that Jaleel "Urkel" White's

towering, muscle-bound,

falsettoing adolescence gave the

show a late-period quality even

in its early years. As the show

sent Urkel on increasingly

fatalistic "Polkapaloozas" and

trotted out such Urkel alter

egos as the swinging Stefan

Urquelle (a sly nod to Nick

Ferrari, Latka's doppelswinger

in Taxi's final days), White

made a sub rosa stab at becoming

the black Andy Kaufman, and

Family Matters became a

Hubble-worthy spectacle - a

sitcom whose final season lasted

about eight years (including

this last one, in which ABC

traded it away in a Babe

Ruth-style scandal). Now it's

finally over, but while the kids

may have lost interest and

hipsters exhausted themselves on

more high-profile immolations,

the real TV fans will be

watching the swan song tomorrow

night to find out how Urkel gets

out of his wacky space shuttle

adventure. It may not sound like

much, but trust us, it's better

than your first anal sex.




courtesy of the Sucksters