Tod Goldberg

Rotund Alien Sluts And The Girthy Men In Spandex Who Love Them

As a general rule, I try to avoid crowds of people wearing spandex. This rule comes from three knowns:

1. If you're wearing spandex and I'm around you, it means that a hole has been ripped in the time/space continuum and I've been deposited back onto the Sunset Strip in 1987. You're a member of Faster Pussycat and I'm here to tell you that the future is covered in flannel, son. 

2. If you're wearing spandex, that means you're likely wearing a uniform of some kind. And by uniform I mean something that includes both pants and shirt stitched together and accessed only via zippers. This is how people are likely to dress in the future because in the future, denim becomes as scarce as gasoline and water and people will kill for a decent pair of jeans. 

3. You think Star Wars is real. You think Star Trek is real (except for the version with Scott Bakula, because everyone knows he's fake). You think manga characters are real. You think that Twilight is the best movie you have ever seen, ohmygod, and that there's a pretty good chance Night at the Museum is based on a true story. 

So, imagine my surprise when I descended upon Comic Con to do a panel and lose an award, only to find that my outfit of jeans and a white shirt was, in fact, the most normal thing anyone would wear to such an event (well, apart from the other writers on the panel, pictured here). It turns out spandex is the fabric of choice if you're attending Comic  Con. I knew people would be in costume, I just didn't realize how many people of, say, largess would try to cram their, uh, largess into tight fitting space suits and such. Now I'm not some heroin chic model, so believe me when I say this men and women of largess: you are not creating equality for all shapes and sizes when you try to wedge yourself into spandex (or latex, or acrylic) space suits. Dare I say you're risking suffocation.

I wrote much more about my experiences at Comic Con in an essay for the LA Times Jacket Copy blog, which you can read here. Here's a little snippet:

Though maybe the most prevalent initial issue with Comic-Con is how long it actually takes one to get into the San Diego Convention Center. I arrived at 8:00 a.m. and spent the next hour in a mass of people that reminded me more of the Jewish diaspora than just your average queue, provided the diaspora featured thousands of Harry Potters and Slut Aliens (this is not a real character, just a personal fashion choice) and men unironically wearing porkpie hats. The line stretched around the block, through the marina, across the Hoth planet, over Tatooine and then dead-ended next to a spot that smelled a lot like urine. Lovely.

One costume, however, really got me thinking. It was the dude dressed as Bob's Big Boy. I understand going to Comic Con dressed as, say, a Storm Trooper. I understand going as Harry Potter. But going as Bob's Big Boy seems a little on the fringe of the fringe of the fringe. I must say, however, that I was thrilled to death no one was there dressed as the old Sambo's logo (Can anyone believe there used to be a chain called Sambo's? I remember when their logo was a small black boy and then, when apparently that seemed, you know, racist, it became a small Indian boy, which, you know, is totally fine...I recall the one in Santa Barbara had a little of both up until at least the early 1990s). I saw him on Thursday and then again on Friday in the same costume and since I was sweating like a fucking dog in the convention center, I can only imagine this fellow and his outfit didn't smell so spring fresh by Saturday, though I understand his Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae was divine:

The Tour Before The Tour

My official promotional assault for Other Resort Cities [IN STORES EVERYWHERE OCT. 27th!] isn't due to start for another couple of months -- you know, appearances on Dr. Phil (to talk about my dad issues), appearances on Dr. Laura (to talk about how she's absolutely, really, a doctor of something, but certainly not a doctor who could fix me) and my guest rapping appearance on a new single with Dr. Dre (I co-wrote  "Deez Nuts" with him for the Chronic, as you all know) -- but for some reason these next five weeks are filled with opportunities for you to meet me in public to say weird, stalkerish, or just plain insulting things to me.  So, get out your calendars, kids: 

July 24th: 3pm 

Panel at ComicCon, followed by the Scribe Awards.

4:30pm

Book Signing at ComicCon, followed by me getting into a fist fight with Gil Gerard. I figure that guy needs a beating and I'm just the guy to do it, provided that weird little robot man isn't with him.

*Also, I'll be writing about ComicCon for the LA Times Jacket Copy blog on Friday, so swing by there for the cold rock stuff.

August 6th, 7pm 

Borders Books in Westwood

In Conversation with Carlos Ruiz Zafon

August 10th, 7pm

Book Soup in West Hollywood

Launch of Hobart #10

Reading along with Alicia Gifford and Stefan Kiesbye

August 30th 1:30pm

UCLA Extension Writers' Program 

Writers Faire

Panel Discussion on MFA program with Steve Heller from Antioch and Paul Vangelisti from Otis and chaired by Aimee Liu. 

Letters to Parade: Michael Jackson Looks Great And His Concerts Should Revive His Career!

The above headline is what I expected to find on the cover of Parade this week, since Parade is notable for declaring the living dead, the dead living and the in between, well, somewhere Ernest Borgnine is still angry about something, I'm sure. I suspect next week will bring the Jackson cavalcade to the pages of Parade. I predict that Walter Scott will be there to answer all the important questions. In fact, my sources tell me the following Q&A will appear next Sunday:

Q. My wife and I have a bet involving anal play (for me!) that I hope you can settle. I say Micahel Jackson is actually still alive and his entire "death" is a deliberate ruse to boost 8-track sales of The Wiz soundtrack. My wife doesn't think this is true. Please settle this bet as an unlubed fisting rides on it! -- P. Blue, Milton-Freewater, Oregon

A. Tell your wife to crack her knuckles and get to work! Our sources tell us that Michael is alive and well and will be starring in the Hallmark Hall of Fame film I Walk The Moon this Tuesday. Don't believe the rumors! Mike Jack is back! 

The problem here is that there's a really good chance this is being typeset somewhere in Parade's offices as we speak, editor Janice Kaplan trying to figure out a euphemism for anal play that might not offend the gentle sensibilities of her made up readers. Like, say, the four letter writers to Parade this week who, oddly, asked that their names not be used. There's M. White and M. Brown and A.M. and Mike B, too, which makes me wonder which lazy intern was charged with coming up with the fake names this week and settled on the letter M as the go to initial. I mean, isn't that one of those letters you get for free on Wheel of Fortune? That M. Yellow wasn't used this week only means he (or she) will be writing in next week. 

But, indeed, the readers do have a gentle sensibility. Either that or the readers are suffering from terrible brain injuries or parvo or the piles or consumption. Something, anyway. Let's examine M. White, for instance, who writes in to ask:

Q Why would Mischa Barton choose to appear as a deranged stalker in her new film, Homecoming?—M. White, Newark, N.J.

Gee, that's a good question, M. Why would an actor choose to act? Let's see.

1. It's their job, you fucktard.

2. When you portray something in a movie, you, uh, don't have to become that thing. It's make believe. It's not unlike you, M. White. A make-believe person.

3. They get paid scads of money.

4. Pretending is fun!

5. You might be suprised to learn that they don't make movies about people who live in their parents' basement and spend their days jerking off to Farscape fan fiction and thus films typically need to have what we call "conflict" in them.

6. Perhaps Mischa Barton is batshit and likes playing batshit characters because it doesn't take a lot of work. Just show up and act batshit.  

Of course, the nice thing about Parade is that they are always right on the vanguard of things and thus must have been terribly surprised when Barton was 5150'd last week considering she's always been, you know, totally reliable...uh...wait..well, anyway, she was 5150'd four days before the magazine came out, which isn't a lot of lead time, I'll grant, but plenty of lead time for them to, you know, note the issue in their new fangled Information Super Highway Website in light of her answer to the question below. I suppose this isn't as egregious as Parade declaring Lindsey Lohan clean and sober the day she was arrested with all of Colombia in her pocket (which, as I recall, she said she was "just holding for a friend named Tony Montana"), but, well, it's pretty close:

A “Because I’m attracted to characters who are a departure from my own experience,” the former star of Fox’s The O.C. tells us. “My character goes to extremes, which is one of the reasons she was so much fun to play.”

Hmm. Well, we send our best wishes to Barton. Going batshit can't be fun. As for the fucktards at Parade who conveniently make up questions about stars just prior to their new projects being released, I say do a little research prior to sending things to print. That way you'll avoid the shame that goes along with the planned Paula Abdul Q&A from M. Orange:

Q. It's so great to see Paula Abdul so lucid! What's her secret to keeping her mental faculties at such a high Marilyn Vos Savant level? My wife says it's all vitamin B. I guess it's Diprevan. A three some with the gardener is is riding on this!

A. "My faith in god is so strong," sources tell us Abdul told her dog. "I just thank god for the chance to goat fudge lip needle beat on the side of bacon." 

This Is For The People Who Died

I was thinking this evening, upon learning that Walter Cronkite had died, that it's pretty dangerous being a celebrity these days. If I were really famous and not just a midlist author, I'd have around the clock security watching me at all times, Jim J Bullock would be brought in to taste my food and I'd absolutely stop huffing paint thinner to get to sleep at night. 

This rash of deaths also reminded me that a few years ago I did a scientific study to determine if famous people actually did die in threes, which I've reprinted below. You'll be shocked by my discovery:

Goldberg: Being dead

By Tod Goldberg

To say that I was upset to learn Buddy Hackett had passed on to the great Friars Club in the sky would be a severe understatement. Because for all this time, all these many years, I'd wrongly assumed the lovable clown was already dead. Same with Hume Cronyn, Katherine Hepburn, Gregory Peck and David Brinkley. I was somewhat aware that Strom Thurmond was still alive before he kicked, though only in that middling way I am aware that they continue to unearth fossilized bones from the great racist mastodons that once walked the South.

It's not that I would have spent more time cherishing the wide and varied talents of any of the newly un-living had I but known they were alive. Rather, what this sudden surge in celebrity death has done is illuminate an urban legend that I, for one, believe in mightily: that the famous die in bulk, specifically in threes.

In the case of the June Six, as I refer to them now, they all died within three weeks of each other, which makes it even more compelling. Brinkley and his excellent diction started the bazaar on June 11, while Hackett took off the big red nose and floppy shoes on June 30. And within those three weeks, the celebrities managed to cling to each other in the prescribed Group of Three model: after Brinkley died on June 11, Peck waited a full 24 hours before he passed on the 12th, while Cronyn, apparently fresh back from the alien planet he's been stored on since 1985, succumbed on the 15th. Eleven days later, Sen. Thurmond (R-Segregrationville) left this mortal coil, followed by Hepburn on the 29th and, finally, Hackett.

A skeptic would say that people die, period, and that if you divided them all up the number would likely be divisible by three, which may well be true. But how many normal work-at-Kinko's people do you know by name (and by "you" I mean "You") who have died in the last month? The odds are most of you led a death-free month and hallelujah to that. Consider the plight of someone like Bob Hope--a person who likely knew all six of our chosen dead. Granted, Mr. Hope may not be fully functional at the moment either, but think of it in this way: Of the six people who died, four could reasonably be called his co-workers.

There are only two conclusions, then, that one can make about the recent spate of celebrity passings:

1. There's an assassin out there with a bloodlust for newscasters, people who co-starred in films with Steve Guttenburg, women with shaky voices, men who portrayed American heroes, frumpy comedians and bloodsucking racists dutifully elected to office year in and year out despite being obviously senile.

2. The urban legend is true: if you're famous and two people of approximately equal fame die, move your shit off the grid and avoid sharp objects.

As I am nothing if not a thorough journalist, I decided to do some research to see if I could glean any empirical evidence to support either claim. This is what I came up with:

Since Jan. 1, 17 really famous people have died (in order to be "really famous" the average 21-year-old human with a GED should be able to guess within a reasonable range what field you garnered your acclaim, or infamy, in--this would preclude someone like Nina Simone from being counted...sorry, Nina). Of those 17, only Nell Carter fits the assassin profile--and it's a tough fit at that. Calling Nell a "frumpy comedian" would thus indicate that at some point "Gimme a Break" was actually funny, which, to the best of my knowledge, it never was. And though it could be said by some that Johnny Paycheck is an American hero, I find it highly unlikely anyone would have ordered his cap peeled.

On the flip side, however, is this startling fact: Beginning in 2000, an average of 56 really famous people died each year. During that time, the longest single distance between celebrity deaths is 35 days, which occurred in 2001 (Eudora Welty died on July 23 and was next followed by Aaliyah on Aug. 25). 2001 is also notable for the amount of times celebrities died on the exact same day as each other--five--including the vaunted trailer-park-in-heaven pairing of Carol O'Connor and John Lee Hooker. Statistically, the urban legend isn't merely true; it's also dangerous.

On a larger scale, this suggests the people of this world who demand our attention, be it through TV, movies, music, political office or by dating Demi Moore, are more prone to die with the same herd mentality that causes them to quest for the fame itself.

So if you're, say, the gay Ben Stiller-looking guy from "Vegas Showgirls 2," how do you avoid dying young? Steer clear of the areas where some of our older icons currently reside--for instance, maybe sidestep Ronald Reagan altogether--and stay away from particularly loved NASCAR families, hard drugs and Steve Guttenburg. You'll thank me later.

Ron Artest Sings About The Pain We Both Feel Regarding Michael Jackson's Death

Like many of you, I've had some mixed feelings about Michael Jackson's death. Part of this stems from the fact that for a brief period of time (known as 1983-1984) I'd regularly go into the Chess King and Merry-Go-Round at the Sun Valley Mall in lovely Pleasant Hill, California to try on the numerous replica faux leather Michael Jackson jackets. As you might recall, not only did these stores carry the imitation Thriller jackets, they also carried the imitation Beat It jackets, too, both the one Michael wore and the white one worn by one of the dancing gang members. I never made the big purchase, thankfully, as I had enough problems already as a kid, and god knows I didn't need to have Tim Hicks or Bobby Soto kick my ass for dressing like Michael Jackson (they didn't kick my ass for the parachute pants I already owned since several other dipshits also had them...though the ear-clip might have gotten me killed if Todd Harris hadn't advised me to take it off before school started the first day of 8th grade...and a career was born for him...). The other aspect is that both Thriller and Off The Wall were great albums that I listened to constantly as a kid. Now, the difficult thing is that I try not to give child molesters my money and I can honestly say that I haven't paid for anything by Michael Jackson in a very long time. Of course who knows if Jackson molested kids, but, man, it sure seems like something off the wall was happening over there in Neverland. 

Anyway, I bring this all up today not because I'm trying to figure out whether or not I'm going to watch the funeral (I feel obligated to, the same way I feel obligated to watch Beverly Hills Bordello whenever it's on), but because if I feel conflicted about this, think how Laker Ron Artest must feel. Because, you see, uh, Ron Artest had a, uh, lot in common with Michael Jackson, uhm, I think, or, uh, well, fuck, who knows what Ron Artest was thinking about before he decided to record this tribute to Michael Jackson, but I think he says what all of us must be, uh, yeah, thinking, during this trying time in American history:

Favorite line: "MJ, you're in my prayers, I know you're in heaven, I hope to see you next year." 

Second favorite line: "He inspired guys like Jamie Foxx and Usher, too."

Third favorite line: "Even though I'm always strapped, I'm puttin' down my mack for Mike Jack."

At 3:34 in, Ron actually begins crying. 

On the upside, Ron Artest is a lockdown defender on the basketball court. On the downside, he's planning on being dead next year.