When Celebrities Attack

“Do you know who I am?” a shit-faced Glen Campbell is reported to have challenged his jailers this week, who were locking him up for driving under the influence. “Extreme” drunk driving, they were calling it—which kind of made it sound like a new yuppie sport. He then kneed an officer in the thigh and demanded to speak to the chief of police. Later (I love this part), he was heard warbling “Rhinestone Cowboy” in his cell.

You’ve got to admire his chutzpah. “Do you know who I am?” is really not the kind of question that should be asked by a celebrity whose career is in such an advanced state of decomposition. But you can’t blame him for trying. This is, after all, a culture that tends to hand out “get out of jail free” cards to anyone who has felt the warm glow of the spotlight. That's the whole point of being famous, isn’t it? To be able to play by a different set of rules.

Witness Michael Jackson. I mean, imagine there is a man in your neighborhood, a man in his forties, a postal worker, say, or a steamfitter (whatever that is) who lives down the block. Now imagine that this steamfitter (whatever that is) has become friendly with all the little boys in the neighborhood. He has built a magical wonderland on his property and entices all the kiddies to come over. He invites his favorite little boys to stay for sleep-overs in his bedroom and--well, it’s just too creepy to go on. How long do you think it would take for the neighborhood parents to a grab a length of rope and form a posse? How long before this steamfitter (whatever that is) is fitting steam in prison (whatever that means)?

But never mind that Michael Jackson has publicly acknowledged his fondness for perverted pajama parties. His supporters know he is innocent. How do they know he’s innocent? Simple: because they like his music. One meatball in China is organizing a “prayer for Michael,” whom he called “a gentleman—and we trust him.” Another defender quoted in a wire service story said that Jackson made him understand that “in life there is always someone, somewhere, thinking of you.” That’s right, Sparky—and in this case he’s thinking of you in your underpants. A Jacko fan in France beseeches us to “listen less to the rumors and more to the music.” Sure thing, Pierre. And the next time the Germans come goose-stepping over your borders, listen less to the marching and more to the accordions.

Meanwhile, in Washington, infamous sniper John Allen Muhammed has been summarily sentenced to death—a verdict almost universally endorsed by an unsympathetic populace. Now I’m not saying that this confessed serial killer deserves a prayer vigil or plate of cookies. But I can’t help wondering if he might have been spared the death row bunk if he had had the good sense to have recorded a hit album, or thrown a few spectacular touchdown passes, or at least been in a syndicated sitcom. In the end, Muhammed’s greatest failing may be not so much that he is a murderous sociopath, but that he is a murderous sociopath who is unable to carry a tune.

The Day the Chinese Lady in the Mall Freaked Out

As much as I complain about the drab quotidian aspects of my workaday world (and believe me, I do) there is a certain reassuring comfort that comes from establishing—and depending on—a routine.

I leave the house for the office around the same time every morning. I stop for coffee at Starbucks, where I order a “short” coffee of the day. (You might say that this is the only variable in my morning routine, except that I have never been able to distinguish one coffee of the day from another; for all I know it’s all Folger’s Crystals.) I know where to expect the traffic back-ups along the way, and am pathetically happy if I manage to beat a logjam. I know that if the sports guy on the radio is giving his report and I have yet to merge onto the highway, I’m running late.

I consult three websites for news and comment each day—Salon, Slate, and www.aldaily.com. Always those sites, and always in that order. If it’s Monday, I’ll get a sneak preview of the New Yorker, too (we Canadians don’t get it on newsstands until Tuesday).

And then there’s lunch. Our office complex is across the street from a dreary suburban shopping mall, which houses your standard mall food court. Every day—most days anyway—I go to the same Thai food outlet there and have precisely the same meal. The woman behind the counter, a demure, middle-aged Chinese lady, knows my order.

Usually she will acknowledge me with a smile and—curiously—a shy sort of giggle, as if there is something inherently funny about my appearing each day at her counter. Come to think of it, maybe there is. Then she will deftly and wordlessly compile on a styrofoam plate my standard fare: assorted veggies, green beans, black pepper chicken, and a slab of salmon. If I arrive a little late, closer to the lunch rush, she might have someone helping her behind the counter. But when she sees me she will usually direct her helper to another customer, give me the shy giggle and begin filling my plate. I think she takes comfort in the routine, too.

We never speak, except for a few well-rehearsed words. She will always announce the price ($5.34), and I will always thank her for the change. She concludes the transaction by noting, “Nice day.” Not “have a nice day.” Just “nice day”—as if it were more of an observation. I love that.

Then I take my lunch and my book (currently Into the Silent Land by Paul Broks—a fantastic book on neurology that out-Sackses Oliver Sacks, if that’s possible) and take a spot in the same corner of the food court. It doesn’t have to be the same seat, though. That would be boring.

Today, everything changed.

I arrived a little earlier than usual, grabbed a red plastic tray from the stack and slid it onto the counter. She wasn’t there, my demure Chinese lady, but I could see her in the kitchen, through the kind of window sill arrangement that diners have, the slot where waitresses yell orders to the kitchen staff. She was talking with the cook. I waited. Then she was talking loudly with the cook, in Chinese. Then she was yelling at the cook. Before long she was screaming, showering the man in spittle and vituperative blasts of harsh Chinese consonants. Her arms flailed, she stamped her feet, she cried and shrieked—real ear-splitting blasts that echoed through the food court right across to the Orange Julius franchise. I had no idea what she was screaming, of course, but judging from the intensity of her harangue and from the way the man in the paper hat was cowering, it was something along the lines of: “MARRIED TEN YEARS AND I COME BACK HERE TO FIND YOU FORNICATING WITH A GOAT!” Or so I imagined.

I stood there rather foolishly for a moment with my empty red plastic tray. Then I silently slipped it back and slunk away. I’m pretty sure she didn’t see me. I had lunch from some curry stand a couple of windows down, the screams of the no-longer-demure Chinese lady still fogging the air behind me. The food was overpriced and overcooked, and the server did not notify me that it was a nice day. I sat in a different part of the food court, where I could surreptitiously watch for the Chinese lady.

Eventually, she came out and began serving the brave customers who stood waiting for service. Her face was flushed and her eyes were a little puffy, but she gathered herself and began doling out food with a rueful smile.

I suppose I could have waited there, too. I really didn’t want to have to go somewhere else for lunch. But if I had waited, if she had emerged from her screaming fit to see me standing there, something would have changed between us.

And I couldn’t have that.

My Inaugural Address

“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”
--Samuel Johnson

Make way for another blockhead.

I realize the world needs another online journal like it needs another quasi-celebrity porn video, and so I present...another online journal. I also realize that the phrase “online journal” is hopelessly quaint—like referring to “denim trousers” or “marijuana cigarettes”—but “blog” is a neologism I just haven’t been able to embrace. I don’t know, it just sounds so…vulgar. So a journal it is.

I’m not “journaling,” mind you—I’m not an earnest teenage girl or a morose, turtlenecked coffee house intellectual. I’m not trying to “work through issues” or “achieve closure.” And my “personal demons” can stay right where they are, thank you very much. I’m just a middle-aged white guy who’s much too fond of ironic quotation marks—a humble little man of no fixed opinions who decided to launch a cyber scratch pad upon which to scribble his humble little musings.

I will now open the floor to questions. Yes, you there in the front row.

Who the hell are you?
NAME: Daniel Weber.
CHILDREN: One daughter, Abigail, born March 22, 2003, cute as the dickens
MARITAL STATUS: One wife, Kim, born sometime in October, I think it’s the 15th. Yep, it’s the 15th.
OCCUPATION: Writer of presentations, articles, brochures, websites, and cocktail napkins. Some freelance (ask about our special winter rates!), but I’ve managed to finagle a full-time paycheck out of it, too.
TURN-ONS: Light switches, radios, high beams
TURN-OFFS: People who indiscriminately use impact as a verb.


Why are you writing this blog?
It’s not a blog. It’s an online journal.

Whatever.
I am writing it because, in the words of an immortal dead guy (William Makepeace Thackeray—and if he’s so immortal, why is he dead?), “There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up his pen to write.”

Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Like most commercial word sluts, I occasionally harbor the suspicion that I have something more to say than what comes through in my work. (Who among us, let’s be honest, grows up with a secret desire to publish the world’s most poignant paint catalogue?) So this will be my place to play around with random thoughts and idle musings.


Will you be jotting down random thoughts and idle musings?
Excellent question. Yes, this “online journal” (as it has come to be known) will contain generous helpings of thoughts and musings, together with some roasted nuggets of wisdom, served with a light whimsy sauce on a bed of mixed metaphors.


Will it be any good?
Oh heavens, no. I give myself permission to be lousy.

There are couple of reasons I haven’t done much writing outside of my regular work (oh, a few magazine and newspaper pieces, thanks for asking.) One is that the idea of writing for the sake of writing always seemed quite pointless (see blockhead quotation, above). The other is that I am exceptionally lazy.

People who draw or paint will draw or paint any time they can; they can find relaxation in it. People who are passionate about playing the tuba will find the time to play the tuba, bless their silly hearts. But nobody with an ounce of sense actually enjoys the process of trying to make words come out right. It’s work. And I am a resolute leisure-aholic.

But there is also that nagging feeling—that feeling that has launched a million blogs (and countless bad poems by earnest teenage girls and turtlenecked coffee house intellectuals): “I should be writing this shit down.” So I will. Sometimes. I’ll do it because that obsessive-compulsive part of me wants to jot things down. I’ll do it because this “personal corner of cyberspace” idea is kind of a neat little toy. But I give myself permission to be lousy.

You say “sometimes.” Just how lazy do you intend to be when it comes to maintaining your “online journal”?
A reasonable expectation would be for me to make entries, no matter how small, every day. But I have made a life out of not living up to reasonable expectations. So who knows? Every couple of days? Once a week? Every time Ben Affleck and J Lo announce their engagement? I don’t know. I do promise to have a swimsuit edition every summer, though.


Is there any reason anybody but you should read it?
Not that I can think of.


Isn’t it true you were once arrested for hav--
That’s all the time we have for questions.