Let Me Off at the Top!: My Classy Life and Other Musings (9 page)

In general, and this is only part of the problem with the country, Mexico is not a place to go on a bender. Apart from my colorful time as a mayor and the year I was a hill bandit, the usual Mexican bender ended with me in jail. Traditionally I’d wake up and some squat
polistero
(Spanish for “policeman”) would be pointing his pudgy Mexican finger in my face yelling something about me throwing punches. I don’t doubt it. I have thrown a lot of punches in Mexico. When you get the whole news team down there, Brian, Champ and Brick, you are talking about a human tornado of irresponsible fists. We don’t go looking for fights, but gosh darn it, those Mexican guys down there can’t take criticism. I mean, you open your mouth about how their food smells, or how they speak American worse than children, or how there isn’t one of them with blond hair—reasonable and fair criticism—and they just go crazy! Do I love Mayan art? Yes. Do I love Cortés? Yes. Do I love Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass? Of course I do. I love the Mexican peoples but they can be a proud, fiery race. One theory, which I believe will one day be taken as fact, explaining why their passion often outstrips their reason is
related to brain size. Due to a bean diet and other environmental factors, like their proximity to the sun and its powerful shrinking rays, their brains are just not that big. Has this theory been proven? No, but sometimes it’s not prudent to wait for all the facts to come in. You have to quickly sign up for a theory so you can say, “I was there first.”

There are many great things about Mexico. If it wasn’t a huge waste of time a guy could write a whole book about Mexico. They got history. I mean, somebody made those pyramids, right? (I’m revealing stuff I said I never would, so I would prefer it if you read this next sentence after I’m dead. Those pyramids were built by aliens. That’s a fact. The pyramids in Egypt were built by the British in the seventeenth century and the pyramids in Vegas were built by my good friend Steve Wynn. These are all facts. They are disputable for sure but facts just the same.) Mexico is very rich with history. If I were to write such a book, a gigantic waste of my time mind you, but if I were to write it I would bind it in sumptuous Corinthian leather and illustrate it with paintings by my very best friend, LeRoy Neiman. The book would weigh at least twenty-five pounds and would make a great addition to any fine library, and if you’re into pressing flowers between the pages of books this would be the one. I have a book of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the undisputed champion of American poetry, that I purchased in an old curio shop called B. Dalton for thirty-six dollars with beautiful etched illustrations and golden pages bound in the most expensive absolutely real leather available. It’s probably a first edition and I own it. I make sure people see it and talk about it when they
come in my house. You can’t miss it. The display case I built for it makes it impossible to open the front door all the way but it’s worth it. I’m sure this Mr. B. Dalton is pretty steamed I walked off with a first-edition Longfellow, our greatest poet, for thirty-six bucks! Guess what? He’s not getting it back! Anyway, if I was to write a history of Mexico, meaning if I was willing to take time away from picking my nose or watching
Jeopardy!
or sitting on the toilet, it would be that kind of book—a big luxurious book with old-timey Spanish-style letters. I would call the book
The Fabulous Fables and Rich Tales of Olden Mexico and Its Regal Peoples
. I would like to see that title written in gold! I’m beginning to think I may just write this book. I bet everyone in Mexico would appreciate it—to have a book written specifically about you by a legitimately important American! Who wouldn’t want that? The Mexicans may not deserve such a book but I’m going to give it some serious thought. Can you imagine waking up one morning in that godforsaken, dust-blown country and then hearing that Ron Burgundy has taken the time to write a book all about you and your land? Incredible. It would be incredible. I’m going to do it.

The fact is the United States of America is better than Mexico not for all the reasons above but for this simple fact: The Mexican people are THE most self-centered people I know. Here’s a little test I throw at your average Mexican. I have five questions locked and loaded that I will spring on them just to prove my theory from time to time.

As you can see, no tricks here, just plain simple questions anybody on this green earth should be able to answer, especially Mexicans. Notice I don’t just ask culturally specific questions. These are questions to which everyone in the world knows the answer. Of course in this country children can answer these questions! In Mexico hardly anybody knows the answers. Who doesn’t know the original colonies? Who can’t say three Hostess products? Cupcakes! Twinkies! Ho Hos! Easy! It’s not like I’m asking some poor Mexican guy off the street to recite the Constitution. Heck,
I
can’t even do that. But really? You grow up a few miles from the greatest country in history and you don’t even know “The Star-Spangled Banner”? That’s either stupidity or willful ignorance. I go back and forth on this one. I used to only believe it was willful ignorance, which got me into a lot of fights and a lot of jail time. Now I see the Mexican as a simple man without much capacity for learning. It goes back to my theory on brain size. In some ways I feel sorry for him. As a great nation we should
do something, but what? What can you really do if the people themselves don’t want to learn American history so they can better themselves? What can you do! It’s terribly frustrating! Goddamn it, I just threw my typewriter out the window! It gets me so frustrated though. You’re not going to believe this; I threw another typewriter out the window. That’s two that have flown through the air while I’ve been writing about Mexico. I gotta cool down. Typewriters are heavy and could cause a lot of damage down below. I took a shower. I shouldn’t get so worked up. Anyway, I challenge you to find a nation wallowing in its own stupid patriotic pride more than the Mexican nation. Everywhere you go idiots are waving flags and bragging about how great they are. Okay, if you’re so great, how is it you can’t even sing the national anthem? Grrrrrr! Hard to believe but I threw out my last typewriter. Luckily Sears was open, where I have a card, and I was able to purchase THEIR last typewriter. No more writing about Mexico!

Canada is a whole different ball of wax. Imagine sitting in an airport lobby for three days. The only food you can eat is raw potatoes and water. The whole time you’re being forced to listen to babies crying and the hits of Sha Na Na. Also there are no bathrooms. This is the kind of insufferable boredom one feels the moment you enter Canada. Your whole body begins to physically decay. The spiritual life drains out of you. Suicide constantly enters your thoughts. Being awake in Canada offers nothing more than watching the sands of your own mortality pass through the hourglass until it is empty. There is nothing to be hopeful about. There is no projection of something better, only existence in the rawest form.
A Canadian might tell you he is happy. Don’t be fooled. He is living within a sickening paradigm that defines happiness as joyless existing devoid of those qualities that make us human. Almost any Canadian you meet in our country and who has been out of Canada for a while can tell you that he now lives in a magical land. That’s why so many of the Canadians you meet in this country are so creative and pleasant. They have escaped a prison worse than any concentration camp ever constructed.

I’ve done news stories in Canada. I don’t like to go there but sometimes duty calls. Within about five minutes of entering the country I start having suicidal thoughts. The prospect of death seems like a better alternative than being in Toronto or Vancouver. I usually start drinking, which is what the whole country does. They make their beer with a higher alcohol content so they can numb out the pain faster. Most of them don’t drink beer though. Most of them drink gasoline. The Indians around Medicine Hat drink turpentine thickened with rat poison every night hoping they won’t wake up in Canada the next day. Go there. You’ll see. Of course, drinking is a two-edged sword. It can lead to great sadness. Combine that sadness with the naturally depressed state of everyday living in Canada and you will want to lie down on a railroad track. I have done this. I was covering the winter Olympic Games in Calgary. I was trying everything in the book to stay positive. I made sure I had friends around. I packed a pamphlet of daily affirmations, along with puzzles and games. I played flute every morning. I hung out in the ski lodge by the fire and read children’s books to Baxter. But it was no use.
Slowly Canada worked its way into my bones. I lost focus. I was told to cover the women’s biathlon, normally a very exciting sport with skiing AND rifle shooting and women, but I became more and more aware I was standing in Canada. My stomach became heavy, like I had eaten mud. My shoulders stooped. I lost any bounce to my step as I trudged through the snow. Life lost all meaning until a light of hope guided me. I followed the light, a beautiful blue ray, for what seemed like days. The light sang to me. It sounded like the voices of Karen Carpenter, Debby Boone and Olivia Newton-John combined into one welcoming, nurturing symphony. I was in a near-blissful trance and when I saw where it had led me I was euphoric. It was a railroad track. My escape from Canada was only a nap away. I lay down and fell asleep. Luckily for me a big Swede came along. The Swedish people have a great capacity for boredom. Although they are not boring themselves, they can withstand boring situations and boring people with great skill. The Swede took me to a McDonald’s, where I was nursed back to believing I was in America. I stayed in the confines of those golden arches for a full week before I even had the courage to step out into Canada again. In the hundred or so steps I took to the helicopter that was waiting to take me to the United States and safety, I contemplated strangling myself.

Again, I don’t want to disparage any Canadians here. Outside of their own country they can be simply delightful. I’ve met some very playful ones. I do however keep my guard up. If someone is introduced to me as a Canadian I instinctively fortify myself for the torrent of soul-crushing boredom to
come plunging out of their mouth. I even cover my ears if I suspect them of not having been properly Americanized. I once had to interview singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell. She’s from Canada. I very was hip to the new music scene and she was a real up-and-comer. Here’s a transcript of the interview. Notice how quickly my mood changes.

Ron

So tell me about this new brand of folk and rock.

Joni Mitchell

You know, it’s hard to put a label on it.

Ron

Uh-hum.

Joni Mitchell

I think a lot of us, those of us who came out of the Troubadour up in L.A., consider ourselves songwriters first.

Ron

Uh…

Joni Mitchell

My good friend Carole King started out as just that—a songwriter. She really didn’t have ambitions beyond that.

Ron

Please stop.

Joni Mitchell

I’m sorry.

Ron

I’m trying. It’s hard. So … go on. What else?

Joni Mitchell

Are you okay?

Ron

No. No I’m not okay. You are boring the shit out of me. Every word coming out of your mouth is like another pillow to my face, suffocating me to a cold mute death. STOP IT, RON! BE PROFESSIONAL! What’s it like being a singer?

Joni Mitchell

I’m confused.

Ron

Answer the question! NO, DON’T! Pleeeeease don’t answer the question. Come on, Ron! Be a professional. Whatsitlikebeingasinger?

Joni Mitchell

Um, well. I enjoy the intimacy of performance.

Ron

Stop it! I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to kill me. This woman is from Canada! WE HAD A RULE. WE HAD A RULE, DAMN IT! I CANNOT TAKE IT!

Joni Mitchell

What’s going on? Should I sing something from my new album,
Clouds
?

Ron

Lady. If you sing one note in this studio I will hang myself from the lights. Did you hear me? I will step up on this news desk, undo my tie and hang myself from the lights!

What a laugh! Thankfully Joni Mitchell moved to the U.S. and settled with us here in Southern California, where she became more American and less Canadian. Her unorthodox chord changes and haunting voice frequently can be heard coming forth from the cassette deck I have in my bedroom. I’ve almost forgotten she is Canadian. No, I would say across the board when I was challenged with an interview of a Canadian talent, be it world-famous writer Margaret Atwood, funnyman Rich Little or rock musician Neil Young, I ended the interview always threatening to kill myself.

What is so surprising about this is that Canada, except for being colder and maybe having more pine trees and lakes, is basically the same, geologically speaking, as Minnesota or Michigan. It really should be as exciting and prideful as America. It just isn’t. I mean, both Mexicans and Canadians can express pride in their respective countries but it’s a false pride. It’s like the kind of pride someone has in being a loser or an artist instead of a businessman. Everyone knows you wanted to be a businessman but then you became an artist. You have no choice but to take pride in it. That’s just not the case with our great country. We are number one. We take great, truthful and honest pride in being number one.