Dance of the Reptiles (33 page)
Read Dance of the Reptiles Online
Authors: Carl Hiaasen
It’s not the first time that Geraldo’s credibility has been questioned, so he is well experienced at defending himself. “The time has come to stop the Geraldo-bashing,” he fumed
to
The Washington Post
and offered to resign if an independent panel of journalists found he had acted unethically. Of Folkenflik, Geraldo said: “This cannot stand. He has impugned my honor.… He is going to regret this story for the rest of his career.”
You can understand why Geraldo’s knickers are in a knot. If the
Sun
hadn’t blown the whistle, nobody would ever have known that his dispatch from Tora Bora was crapola.
No good excuse exists. If the friendly-fire segment was deliberately staged, then Geraldo is a liar and fraud. If it was just a mistake, as he claims, then he’s an even bigger bone-head than he has demonstrated in the past. This time he got everything wrong—the location, the identity (or even existence) of the victims, and the origin of the “tattered clothing.”
No wonder he choked up over the Lord’s Prayer. He was hoping for divine salvation.
Most network news operations would have been so humiliated by Geraldo’s screwup that he would have been canned or exiled to some remote bureau where there was no hope of getting back on the air. FOX, however, is standing by its man. Calling the episode “an honest mistake,” the network said: “Based on Geraldo Rivera’s 30-year track record, FOX News has full confidence in his explanation and journalistic integrity.”
Meanwhile, FOX hasn’t told its viewers about the big bungle. A spokesman said there is no plan to broadcast an apology or a correction. And heck, why should they? It’s not journalism; it’s showbiz. NBC sent Jay Leno to entertain the troops. FOX sent Geraldo to entertain the rest of us.
Give him a gun, send him down a hole, and let the comedy begin.
We’ll watch. We’ll laugh. And when it’s time to get serious, we’ll change the channel.
February 8, 2004
A Parent’s Guide to J. Jackson’s Halftime Crisis
A Parent’s Guide to the Janet Jackson Crisis: Questions that your children might ask and how you should answer them:
Besides her incredibly lame lip-synching, what exactly did Janet Jackson do that was so wrong?
She exposed a private part of her body on national television, with millions of kids watching.
Big deal. It was just a breast. Everybody’s got ’em, everybody’s seen ’em
.
True, but Janet was still out of line. Some people find nudity offensive, even during halftime of a game in which grown men are cussing, spitting, and pounding each other senseless over a pigskin.
But remember that time you took us to some big museum to see all those old paintings and statues? Remember I counted 27 breasts on one floor?
Let me explain: That was art. This is flashing.
But don’t they show worse stuff than that on those raunchy cable stations you and Dad watch late at night?
Whoa, that’s different. Grown-ups are allowed to watch people peeling off their clothes on TV—Hey, how do
you
know what we’re doing late at night!
Getting back to this Janet Jackson thing, why’d she do it? Didn’t she know that impressionable kids like me could be traumatized for life?
It’s called a publicity stunt. Sometimes when show-business people are trying to be noticed, they go for something really tasteless and pathetic.
Even when they know it’s going to make people mad? I don’t get it
.
It’s called desperation. Janet has a new CD coming out next month, and she’s trying to sell zillions of copies and make tons of money. It isn’t easy competing for headlines with a freakazoid brother who’s up on felony charges.
So, what’s going to happen to Janet now?
Oh, she’ll probably sell zillions of CDs and make tons of money.
You mean her cheap publicity stunt could really work?
Sure. Janet might be tacky, but she’s not stupid. She knew that flashing a Super Bowl audience would gain her more attention than anything else that happened on the planet last Sunday.
Something else actually happened that day besides the football game?
For starters, 109 innocent people were blown up by suicide bombers in Iraq. Of course, a massacre like that isn’t nearly as much fun to show on TV as the digitally obscured breast of a fading pop singer.
This is confusing. If what Janet did was so bad, why do they keep replaying the videotape over and over again?
Hmmm, good question. Maybe they just want to give everyone a chance to see her performance and make up their own minds.
Oh, I’m so sure
.
Okay, okay. The real reason they keep replaying the Janet clip is that the media has the judgment and maturity of a slobbering, hormone-crazed adolescent—no offense.
They go wild over a bare boob, a bare butt, a bare anything, especially if it belongs to a famous person.
Aren’t they worried about upsetting the viewers?
Just the opposite. The TV industry learned long ago that many people who claim to be morally offended by something will tune in to watch it over and over again, if given the opportunity.
Wow, that’s bizarre
.
It’s called hypocrisy, and actually, it’s not so uncommon among grown-ups.
With all the terrible stuff going on in the world, I still don’t understand why people are making such a fuss about Janet
.
To you and your friends, hers might seem like just another celebrity breast, but for some adults, it represents a mountainous threat to decency, good manners, and core family values.
But what about that Nelly dude grabbing his crotch onstage? Nobody’s complaining about that
.
That’s because compulsive crotch-grabbing has become a respected form of artistic expression, while baring a breast is still considered taboo. Hey, we’ve got to draw the line somewhere.
So, how can I tell if I’ve been corrupted by Janet or not?
Don’t worry, we’ll let you know. Any more questions?
Just one. It’s about that weird, star-shaped thingie she had fastened on her you-know-what
.
They’re calling it a “nipple shield.”
Cool. Can I get one?
That’s it. You’re officially corrupted.
February 6, 2005
Memo from Grandpa: Please Don’t Eat Worms
I’m standing at the window of the hospital nursery gazing at you, nine pounds and four ounces of snoozing pink innocence and boundless possibility.
Naturally it’s my hope that you grow up to be happy, caring, generous, productive, principled, and unselfish. Your parents will have much to say about that, and there’s no doubt they’ll steer you wisely through childhood, as they are doing with your brother and sister. Like most mothers and fathers, they’re reluctant to risk dampening their children’s aspirations by heaping too much grim reality upon them too soon. This is a worthy and loving instinct.
However, being a grandfather invests me with a cranky candor that you may have to indulge from time to time as you grow older. We might as well begin now.
The world into which you have so hungrily arrived is a complicated, troubled, and sometimes heartbreaking place. You were fortunate to have been born in the richest and most tolerant country, though it’s far from perfect. You’ll get a chance to make it better, and I hope you do.
Waiting down the road are opportunities so plentiful and varied as to throttle the imaginations of those of us born in the ’50s. The choices you make ought to be yours alone, but it would be baloney for me to say that I’ll be bursting with pride no matter what you do.
Example: While flipping TV channels the other night, I came upon a program called
Fear Factor
. Believe it or not, the show features young men and women swallowing live worms and repulsive parts of dead animals—the ultimate goal being to get famous and win a wad of cash.
You will learn that this sort of witless self-degradation
is what passes for entertainment in some parts of modern American culture.
Surely the parents (and grandparents) of
Fear Factor
contestants never dreamed those kids would someday show up on national television with cow entrails dangling from their expensively straightened teeth, but there you have it.
That’s what I mean about choices. When I was growing up, it wasn’t nearly so easy to make an ass out of oneself in front of millions of people. Today almost anybody can do it. It’s practically an industry.
For what it’s worth, it would be just fine with me if your ambitions led you in other directions. I could coast happily into old age knowing that you never groveled in Donald Trump’s boardroom or chose your fiancée from a gaggle of strangers on the lawn of a French castle.
A few weeks ago, something called a tidal wave smashed into the coasts of Asia and Africa, killing more than 160,000 persons. It was a horror that you have no reason to contemplate at your tender age. But here’s what happened afterward: Millions and millions of people around the world reached into their own pockets and sent whatever money they could afford to help the survivors of that tragedy. And thousands more—nurses, doctors, rescue workers, volunteers—hopped on planes and flew to lend a hand. I couldn’t tell you the names of these people because they didn’t do it in order to become celebrities or win a prize. They did it because they were needed and because it was decent and humane and right.
Now, I’m not suggesting that you can’t gobble live worms on TV and still be a good person. I’m just asking you not to be fooled into believing that sort of thing is remotely important, no matter how much attention it gets.
I’ve spent most of my adult life writing about screwups, the usual flaws being greed, arrogance, and stupidity. I’ve
reported on crooked lawyers, doctors, cops, pro athletes, clergymen, journalists, and, of course, politicians.
Any one of those callings would be fine, if that’s where your passion and talents lie. No matter what you eventually decide, the best way to stay out of the headlines is to be hardworking and honest. Sounds simple, but you’ll be surprised at how many people never quite grasp the concept.
Counting you and the other babies in this nursery, there are now about 6.3 billion human beings on the planet. I’d be lying if I said we’ve taken good care of the joint, because we’ve trashed it. I hope that your generation will do better. I would’ve liked to take you hiking or fishing in some of the cool places I knew as a kid, but they are mostly gone now, replaced by shopping malls and subdivisions. You might want to spend some time fighting to prevent such mistakes from happening again, for the day when you have kids of your own.
It seems silly to be laying all this on you now, when your only worldly concern is scoring a dry diaper and some warm milk.
I trust that your father will spare you from this column until you’re much older and well on your way.
I’m not too worried. After all, your dad turned out just fine.
And if he ate any worms, he was smart enough not to broadcast it.
June 19, 2005
With Michael Acquitted, We’ll Have to Settle for Real News
I read the news today, oh boy.
No more Michael Jackson trial.
What do we do now? The King of Muscle Relaxants has floated back to Neverland, and the rest of us are stuck here in the real world. You know what that means: real news.
It’s scary. There were 2,200 journalists credentialed to
cover Michael’s trial, and now they’ve all got to find something else to do. Some of them will stumble into real stories that actually affect the lives of their viewers and readers. It’s inevitable.
All those acres of newsprint and eons of TV time devoted to the Jackson trial now must be filled with something else. Sure, there’s always Brad and Angelina or Tom and Katie. But they make a red-carpet splash, and then they’re gone. Before you can say Kim Jong Il, the grown-up headlines start scrolling back through our lives.
Michael, you’ve no idea how much you’ll be missed. You kept us so blessedly distracted from the serious events of the world. Every evening we could safely switch off our brains, sit back, and enjoy the freak show from Santa Maria.
Oh, how the fans would shriek when you emerged from that black Suburban—you in that wine steward’s vest and the armband and the dragonfly shades. Having a bodyguard carry your umbrella was delicious camp, Mary Poppins with a concealed-weapons permit. And that morning you showed up in pajamas! Priceless.
But now the circus is winding down. The talking heads on the networks have run out of jurors and lawyers and lawyers pretending to be experts. It’s gotten so pathetic that Geraldo is interviewing himself.
And the news, Michael—talk about a bummer.
Five more U.S. Marines got blown up in Ramadi, which is a city in western Iraq. Another roadside bomb, the Pentagon says. That’s 1,705 U.S. troops who have died since the war began. They printed the total in the newspaper. It made me sick to think about.
What else? Oh yeah, those wacky Iranians have admitted they’ve been messing around with plutonium. Apparently,
they’re working on a nuclear device, which is just what the world needs.
Then there’s some awful story about the Taliban—remember them? Well, it turns out that we didn’t come close to wiping out all of those creeps when we bombed Afghanistan. A Taliban gang broke into a medical clinic in Kandahar and murdered a doctor and six assistants. Later, the leader of the party went on TV to assure all aspiring suicide bombers that Osama bin Laden is alive and well.
So, if you’re a jihadist, the news isn’t all bad.
Likewise if you’re a tobacco tycoon. The Bush administration just ordered the Justice Department to whack $120 billion off the government’s settlement demand in its case against cigarette makers. An early Christmas present for Joe Camel, I guess.
See, Michael, you can’t bail on us now. Don’t disappear behind those gilded gates and leave us out here twisting in the unsurreal world.
