Shouts and Vitriol

Tthis piece in the most recent New Yorker, American Idol World Court, by Paul Rudnick, is so unfunny that it provoked nothing but rage-- much more so than I will ever feel after reading any Seymore Hersh reportage detailing the failings of the Bush Administration. (And thank you Mr. Rudnick for pointing out how shallow I am.)

Why do I hate it so?

1. It's so incredibly original! No one has EVER thought to compare American Idol and national/ world politics!* What a fresh take! Surely no-one would ever think to compare an incredibly popular, incredibly fluffy, television program--one with elements that include voting and judges--to government and related issues! Get this-- they're passing judgement, but on serious things.

Here's a tip: when a Mandy Moore movie has done it already, your premise may have lost some of its satiric edge.

2. Wow, you're right! Randy Jackson sure does say "dawg" a lot. And Paula is spacy! And Simon is a jerk! It's like you've GOTTEN INSIDE THEIR HEADS!

3. Mr. Rudnick has made the bold decision to wait a full four seasons to drop this jewel on us. Also, he's decided to run it while the show is between seasons, and thus foremost in everyone's mind.

4. He probably got paid a couple of grand for shitting out this piece... although that can't compare to the hundreds of thousands he likely made for writing such hilarious films as Isn't She Great, Marci X, and The Stepford Wives, whereas...

5. Shouts and Murmurs has rejected all the pieces I've sent to them. And I have no money.

Yeah... my grapes are probably a bit sour.

But read the following rejected piece, and tell me that it's not eight times as funny as anything they've printed in the last year:

--

Frankenfranken

By Dan McCoy

The following is a transcript of the now infamous "Frankenfranken" program that aired at 2 am on July 17, 2005. It was the last episode of the program ever to be produced.

ANNOUNCER
Coming up next, we have The Frankenfranken Show, which will carry you on through 'til morning. This is Air America. The time is 2:05 AM.

Theme: Feed My Frankenstein by Alice Cooper. Fade out.

FRANKENFRANKEN
Grrrr…. Hello. Welcome to Frankenfranken show. Me host, Frankenfranken, telling you Republicans are dead wrong, and me should know what I talk about. Ha ha. BECAUSE FRANKENFRANKEN DEAD! GET IT? GRRRRR! LAUGH, STUPID LISTENERS!

Sound of a cattle prod.

FRANKENFRANKEN
GRAHHH! (incoherent mumbling) Frankenfranken is sorry he said that. Frankenfranken knows he should not insult own audience. Let's take call.

CALLER #1
…

FRANKENFRANKEN
Caller?

CALLER #1
He—Hello?

FRANKENFRANKEN
Yes?

CALLER #1
Is this the Al Franken Show?

FRANKENFRANKEN
NO! NEXT CALLER!

CALLER #2
Hi. Mr. Franken, don't you think that naming your book "Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot" helped lower the level of political discourse in this country?

FRANKENFRANKEN
AAAAARRRRRRGGHHHH!!!

Sound of phone being crushed.

FRANKENFRANKEN
How many times does Frankenfranken have to explain to you people? Frankenfranken and Al Franken not the same. Frankenfranken created by Air America in effort to plug gigantic hole in least-popular overnight time slot. Me stitched together from parts of six dead Al Franken clones and one box Frankenberry™ brand cereal, then reanimated using power of lighting bolt that strike Air America broadcasting tower! IS VERY SIMPLE!

Long pause.

FRANKENFRANKEN
So to answer question: Frankenfranken not write Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot. Frankenfranken write much less popular book "If Rush Limbaugh Reanimated Corpse, He Still Be Dumb." Besides, me believe Al Franken book title meant as parody of Limbaugh own rhetorical attacks.

Sound of newspaper clumsily being opened.

FRANKENFRANKEN
So, while they bring new phone, let's talk. What in paper… George Bush say global warming need more study. George Bush say no stem cell research. George Bush say war in Iraq front line in war on terror. George Bush, George Bush, GEORGE BUSH! URGH! BUSH MAKE ME SO MAD! ANY CALLER BUSH MAKE MAD TOO, CALL IN! TALK TO FRANKENFRANKEN! CALL!

CALLER #3
Is this Frankenfranken?

FRANKENFRANKEN
YES!... Yes, is Frankenfranken. You hate Bush?

CALLER #3
Sure, sure… I'm a lifelong democrat, but that's not why I called. Did you say that you were stitched together from six dead clones of Al Franken and one box of Frankenberry cereal?

FRANKENFRANKEN
(Sigh) Yes, Frankenfranken say that.

CALLER #3
Why did they add the box of Frankenberry cereal?

FRANKENFRANKEN
You not think Frankenfranken ask self same question? Frankenfranken wonders every day! Is all Frankenfranken can do to keep from clawing at self to get at the delicious strawberry-flavored cereal that lies beneath! FRANKENFRANKEN NOT ASK TO BE CREATED! FRANKENFRANKEN JUST AS AIR AMERICA MAKE ME!

Sound of a cattle prod. Incoherent muttering.

CALLER #3
Well, also—you're stitched together from six dead Al Franken clones? Why murder six clones, pull them apart, put them back together, and reanimate them? It seems like a lot of trouble. If you have the technology to make a Franken clone, then why not just give the clone a show?

FRANKENFRANKEN
Because Air America mad with power! Air America discover secret of reanimating dead tissue, and decide to play God! Frankenfranken made up of six dead clones because Air America take the most liberal body part from each Al Franken, to create unholy super-liberal!

CALLER #3
Okay, now that just doesn't make sense. If these were all clones, surely the liberalism would be distributed exactly the same in…

Sound of Frankenfranken hanging up.

FRANKENFRANKEN
CALLERS! STOP MAKING FRANKENFRANKEN QUESTION MEANING OF OWN EXISTENCE! IT ENRAGES FRANKENFRANKEN! Of course Frankenfranken's life raises all kinds of questions! Frankenfranken is deeply conflicted about own existence! For example: as super-liberal, Frankenfranken appreciate cloning technology in relation to stem cells as possible medical boon. On other hand, as reanimated clone, Frankenfranken feels self to be abomination before God!

Incoherent chatter from engineer's booth. Sound of torch being lit.

FRANKENFRANKEN
Also, Frankenfranken wonder about own free will! Is Frankenfranken a liberal because me so chose? Or is Frankenfranken liberal because me stitched together from parts of liberal?! And is sound of torch being lit really sound that can be recognized over radio, then later transcribed for transcript purposes?!

Sound of scuffle, things being knocked over.

FRANKENFRANKEN
URRRRH! FIRE! FIRE BAD! NOOOOOOO!

Sound of burning studio collapsing. Static. Silence.

ANNOUNCER
Next, on Air America: Zombie Adlai Stevenson.

--

So, call me, The New Yorker. I may insult you, but I only do it out of love. Love, and the desire for you to send me large checks, and not to a guy who made a movie where Lisa Kudrow runs a rap label.

Seriously, fuck Paul Rudnick.

*to quote The Simpsons, "In case you couldn't tell, I was being sarcastic."

Early New Yorker Edition

And now, for the latest in my series republishing old Jest pieces, we have this bit of humor-- out of date only in that Richard Avadon has since passed away...

Early New Yorker Edition

“Damn.” I muttered, as I examined the contents of mailbox 3G, St. Marks Place, number 18. “Wrong again.”
Aside from various bills, I held a New Yorker, addressed to me, Adam Shaw. That’s normal. I’ve been a subscriber since my birthday, eight months ago. My girlfriend signed me up to counter the embarrassment she feels when I skim Us Weekly. What was unusual was the date. The cover read October 20, 2003; and today was decidedly the 13th.
You see, since the start, I’d been receiving next week’s New Yorker. Not some early printing delivered by mistake, but an actual copy of New York’s foremost cultural and literary magazine—from the future.
The first hint of something strange came months ago, when I happened to remark upon a cartoon that tickled me. When speaking with friends at a bar, I said, “Hey, anyone see that Koren comic with the bumpy, furry guy, and he says something like ‘I had hoped you’d love me in spite of my flaws’? Cracked my shit up.” There was a deafening silence. I attempted to recover. “No? Well then you simply must have seen Roz Chast’s page on the 11 kinds of mother worry.” I could tell by their faces that they had not. I was about to forge ahead, when I felt my girlfriend’s hand, gently, on my shoulder. I shut up, and my friend Phil changed the subject to the Yankees’ recent loss.
Still, it stuck with me, the sense that something was amiss. The next evening I was walking home from work, when I passed a newsstand. The New Yorker was front and center, but instead of Art Speigelman’s whimsical pastel portrait of orthodox rabbis and Muslim taxi drivers waltzing together (which graced my copy) there was an issue I’d never seen before, sporting a watercolor of George W. Bush at a dog run, the dogs caricatures of the Democratic presidential candidate.
“Good God, what’s happening?” My head awhirl, I ran home, snatched the New Yorker from its place on my mantle, and sped back to the mysterious newsstand.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded, shaking my 101 pages of essays, arts, and in-depth reportage.
The vendor narrowed his eyes. “I ask you same thing.”
“Is this, or is this not the New Yorker I have in my hand?”
“Maybe is, maybe isn’t. Give to me to see.” I handed him the offending magazine. He glanced at it, then knit his brows and fixed me with a furious stare. “Get away my stand.” he growled.
“But, sir…” I said.
“We deal in honest New Yorker here.” He struck the stack of magazines, sending one skidding into the gutter. “Honest. No phony!”
I struggled to regain my conversational footing. “Sir, I don’t know what you mean…”
“Get away! This is law abiding stand. Take counterfeit and go! Go before I call Richard Avadon, and have you arrested.”
Faced by this threatening prospect, I ran.

* * * *

Over time, the truth became clear, A whole month of showing up to Whitney exhibits one week early, convinced me that I had been selected for a special destiny. I had been granted a window into the future, and this was both my blessing and my curse.
Dropping my keys on the end table as I entered the apartment, I swept aside old pizza boxes, napkins, photos of myself in the nude, the accumulated detritus of my counter to make room for the latest issue. I opened it, flipping past the performance notes until I found what I was looking for—The Talk of the Town. I skimmed the columns. A whimsical black and white line drawing portrayed an owl in a concierge’s uniform holding a pair of binoculars. The looked down at some men in suits, who pointed up, agog. Above this, a red headline reading, “Department of Wildlife” followed by “Checking Owt” in black. I read:

Visitors to our city have always been dismayed
by its lack of aviaries, particularly in
metropolitan areas. Earlier this month a group
of philanthropic owls took it upon themselves to
correct this oversight by moving into the
condemned New York Grand Hotel on the
corner of 14th and Broadway.
The owls in question, beyond their impeccable
taste in luxury accommodation, are distinguished by
their rarity. These are spotted owls, a breed
traditionally confined to the Northwest, preferring,
as they do, old-growth forests (old-growth deco
interiors do not count). Their miraculous appearance
has created a new Mecca for conservationists on 14th
street, and has stayed, for the moment, the Grand’s
planned demolition.In fact, the hotel has become
a moneymaker for the first time in years, offering
expensive birding tours. Reports suggest that room
service is also doing a brisk business in mice.

"Not on my watch.” I muttered, as I grabbed my keys and strode, with a new sense of purpose, toward the door.

* * * *

On the way to 14th and Broadway I checked my cell phone, discovering (with no surprise whatsoever) that Fisher had left another pleading message.
Fisher’s been a buddy since college, when he convinced me not to major in business management, so in a way, he saved my life. I’ll always be beholden to him, but lately he’s become difficult to bear. In school, his first words to me were, “I’ll bet you I can drink this bottle of Schnapps,” and gambling and booze have been his twin obsessions ever since. Ever since I’d begun receiving magazine-shaped missives from the future, he’d been working every angle. I didn’t even know he’d ever seen a New Yorker until I heard he’d made a mint in Vegas, from betting the rag would pan Alice Sebold’s latest novel. I thought he’d worked it out of his system until I heard he got in trouble with some mobsters for choosing to bet against Michael Chabon. Since then he’s been on the lookout for the next literary long-shot, but I’ve kept an eye on him—for his own good. The ‘Yorker is not to be used for personal gain.
“Adam…” He sounded nervous. “Adam, you gotta let me see the new issue, you just gotta. Listen.” A pause. “I’m in a bit of a jam here. I got so used to having the inside information, I got greedy. I had to bet on something, even if I couldn’t be sure. So I put a little money—just a little, y’know?— on George Plimpton contributing in September. Turns out Plimpton writes for the Paris Review. Plus he died. So now I gotta try and make the cash up. I put some dough on ‘Shouts and Murmurs’ being more clever than funny, but it turns out the Nevada odds on that are 1-1. Time’s running out… I gotta get something Adam, that’s all. A scrap. They’re gonna break my toe!” The message cut off.
So he was in trouble again. Well, he was just going to have to deal with it. A month with a cane might do him some good. I had owls to visit.

* * * *

Getting into the old hotel was easy. After all, no-one knew about the owls yet, so there weren’t that many people around—just a security guard, and no guard gets paid well enough to worry about a condemned building. I snuck right in. The birds took a little while to find, but I wasn’t in any hurry. Floor by floor I made my rounds, until I heard a suspicious scuffling in the dumbwaiter. Owls aren’t too hard to scare off, especially when they’re out of their element. I opened every window and door, and one by one, I lit the firecrackers I’d brought with me, tossing each one strategically for the maximum scare. There was a great flapping of wings, and for a moment it seemed as if I was surrounded. Then, like the last kernels of popping corn, the noise slowly died out. Owls, about twenty of them, could be seen out the window, flying into the distance. “That’s one more thing the town won’t be talking about.” I said to myself.
“What are you doing?” said the confused old security guard, standing at the top of the stairs.
“Only my duty, old man. Only my duty.” I said.

* * * *

The October 20th newsstand copy of the New Yorker made no reference to any bird hotel. In fact, the only mention of the hotel on 14th street was a brief blurb in the back of that Sunday’s Times, noting that the old hotel had been demolished, as planned. I didn’t care. I’d already received the October 27 New Yorker. It told of a reunion, 50 odd years later, of three jazz musicians who had happened to serve in the same company during WWII. By sheer coincidence, the old comrades-in-arms had run into one another on the A train, and were planning a special concert at the Vanguard the following week. The theme would be wartime standards. “Not on my watch.” I muttered.

* * * *

Sometimes my girlfriend asks me why I do it. “Why,” she says, “do you care if these things happen or not? They’re fun stories—neat examples of all the little anecdotal things that happen in this great city every week. I’m sure they enrich the lives of all the people involved, and people certainly enjoy reading about them. Jesus. I just don’t get why you have to run around the city stopping them. Why, Adam? Why?”
I never answer; I just shrug. Then she shrugs, and makes a face, and leaves.
If she has to ask, she’ll never understand.