Shame on you, Gary Trudeau! In a recent Doonesbury strip, B.D. and Boopsie were commenting on the depravity of a Hollywood culture so tumescent at the thought of involving itself in the Roman Polanski crusade that if the issue was a thirteen year-old girl it would have raped her (not raped her -raped her mind you, so relax). You clearly just don’t get it. Hollywood deserves its excesses, because Hollywood gives us ART, and in doing so gives us what we need the most–something to imitate.
Hollywood gets to carry a gun through airport security, go on racist screeds, drive without a license and drink till dawn even though it is under age (of course in this case Hollywood must also be cute-as-a-button) because it has the wisdom and talent to teach WalMart Greeter Nation (aka the rest of us) how to face life’s great issues.
“What?” you say? “Don’t be absurd! Show biz people live in a dream world. I’m nothing like them!”
To you I say “Wow! How’d you find my blog? Lonely in here, isn’t it?” Then I say “I give you Kanye as Spartacus.”
Who can forget the dark days? Who does not remember where they were on 9/13 when they heard the news: Kanye Disses Taylor Swift at the VMAs? A nation paused as one…many had opined that at such a moment we would fall apart, revert to our animalistic core and tear ourselves asunder. But we didn’t. As in all times of crisis– 9/11, WW II, getting here and finding all those pesky Indians on our land–Hollywood told us how to cope!
In the weeks after Taylor Swift, who had just days before been sitting at her bedroom window looking across the yard through Moon Man’s window and singing that he should be with her instead of that tramp Mariah, was robbed of her chance to rise from having just earlier that evening to sing in the subway to becoming a cross-over star (sorry C&W, you ain’t Woodie, you still just get to marry your niece) we cast Kanye West out of polite society. No one said it better than Zippy, who commented to Kanye on an Gossip board “You really aren’t free; you are still a slave!”
“Slave?” you say? “Outcast? With any luck has been. But slave?”
Leap ahead a month. October 9. Barrack Obama has won the Nobel Peace prize. America is shaken loose from its moorings. He has only been President for nine months! He hasn’t even matured into the job! In the context of the four-year term of office he is at best 17 maybe 18 years old! How should we respond? To whom can we beg for guidance?
Almost by instinct, we turned to film fiction–in this case a plucky youngster who came from nothing to gain fame in the arena! Who then because he said what was in his heart (or at the bottom of his bottle of Hennessy) was banished into obscurity–an outcast with a price put on his head.
So when Obama rose to accept his undeserved reward, was it not Kanye West, the runaway slave, to whom we turned?
“Barrack, I’m a big fan, and I will let you have your moment, but Morgan Tsvangirai had one of the best peace efforts ever!”
“I am Spartacus! Neda, the plucky Iranian has a much better body of work!”
“I am Spartacus! Rush should have gotten it!” Really. Somebody said that.
And just like in the classic scene, one by one, we each and all rose in defense of our outcast hero to shout as one “I am Spartacus! Give it to Gandhi. They believe in reincarnation; he has to be over there somewhere!”
So Mr. Big shot Pulitzer Prize winning cartoonist! Roman Polanski must go free, because everyone in Hollywood from the oldest washed out idol to the youngest kleptomaniacal crack addict must be allowed to do what they do best–tell the rest of us who and how to be. As a nation, nay as a people, we depend on them!
And while I’m on the subject, I am Spartacus! Where the frak is Mallard Fillmore’s Pulitzer?