FRY ICE (07.15.99)

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BY PETER KURTH

 

Capote and Gross -- can you guess which is which?

Suffering Saint Monica -- what a lot of flack! I write one column regretting the trivialization of American actresses on the silver screen and what do I get? A flippin’ Renee Zellweger vigilante committee!

A reader in Charlotte wants me to quit wasting her time with "pointless, pallid panegyrics" and "dull-witted barbs at the film industry." She suggests, if I have nothing to say, that I "run an `archive edition’ like Terry Gross." Failing that, she asks that my editors throw my rotten columns at my head.

There are several things my Charlotte correspondent needs to know. First, I always have something to say. This is an immutable condition, for better or worse -- call it glossolalia.  Truman Capote said you should never answer your critics, and look what happened to him -- one pill too many in the effort to bite his tongue.

Second, if my editors threw anything at my head, I’d get them on assault charges. This is why they keep publishing my "panegyrics." They know what a terror I am in the courtroom.

Third, Terry Gross broadcasts her show a lot more often than I write "Crank Call." She also has producers and a staff. All sorts of people help Terry find interesting topics, whereas I’m here alone, a still, small voice crying in a town where cultural criticism begins and ends with the standing ovation.  Criticize anything and they’ll send you to treatment.

Fry ice, Charlotte! Yesterday, my partner was nearly run off the road by a blonde in a gold Chevy Manslaughter. What’s more, she gave him the finger when she finally managed to careen past him at 60 miles an hour in a 30-mile zone. John thinks it was the WCAX-TV weather girl, Sharon Meyer, but I’ve met Sharon a couple of times and I know she'd never do such a thing. I reminded John that a lot of blondes look alike.

 

Wait, it gets worse. Somebody recently spat on my sister-in-law’s windshield when she failed to knuckle under to the newest thing in lawlessness – the left turn into traffic. You know how this works: You’re stopped at a red light, first in line. When the signal turns green, you wait for the two or three cars that inevitably ignore it to get safely out of your path. But before you can move, the driver across from you at the intersection – usually in a 4 x 4 – cuts out in front turning left, at the same time fixing you with a look that says, "Get out of my way, you pointless, pallid panegyric!"

I could write about the Vatican, which last week ordered an American nun and priest who’ve been ministering to Catholic gays and lesbians for 20 years to cut it out on pain of … well, whatever the Vatican still does to renegade priests and nuns. It used to be burning at the stake, after the most brutal torture and pressure to confess. For what it’s worth, the Inquisition makes a distinction between homosexual acts and homosexual persons. The first are "evil," and the second are worthy of "dignity, compassion and respect." So, unless this nun and priest were serving the Host at an orgy, I don’t see the need for fiats and threats.

File this under: "Dull-witted Catholic-bashing."

I could write about the U. S. Senate, which on Thursday, thanks to all but two of its Republican members, sold the nation lock, stock and barrel to the HMOs. It was a defeat – no, a rout – for the Patients’ Bill of Rights, which would have allowed the millions of Americans who’ve been shafted by these immoral, number-crunching flacks to appeal to a higher authority in matters of life and death.

"Congress should not imperil the continuing transformation of American medicine," says Sen. Trent Lott. "It's not our job to dictate or control that transformation." The AMA is unionizing, for God’s sake, and this puffed-up prick is yakking about "medicine."

File this under: "Ad hominem attacks."

As to "the film industry," John and I have lately fallen in love with Bruce Willis. I never thought this would happen, but it has. I report it here in the interest of full disclosure and to show that I'm not merely a nattering nabob of negativism, but in step with the mood of the nation. One thing you can count on in a Willis picture is the comforting sound of gunfire. "BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!" Suddenly, it’s music to our ears.

"No people ever recognize their dictator in advance. He never stands for election on the platform of dictatorship. He always represents himself as the instrument [of] the Incorporated National Will. ... When our dictator turns up you can depend on it that he will be one of the boys, and he will stand for everything traditionally American. And nobody will ever say `Heil' to him, nor will they call him `Führer' or `Duce.' But they will greet him with one great big, universal, democratic, sheeplike bleat of `O.K., Chief! Fix it like you wanna, Chief! Oh Kaaaay!'" -- Dorothy Thompson, 1935

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