The night was hot when Christy, my common-law wife and kung-fu
bodyguard, and I returned from our impromptu vacation at Cannes.
The film festival was a flop, quoted by many journalists and
cinefiles as the worst in over 30 years, and even I had to admit it
felt good to return to the muggy mess of Los Angeles.
But our business was pressing: We were both graduating college
and had yet to topple Rupert Murdoch’s nefarious Inner
Circle. And since this is to be my final column, I figured a sense
of closure was necessary. Some idea, a revelation perhaps, felt
right around the corner.
Yet, upon returning to Westwood, there was an overwhelming sense
of shame that I couldn’t shake. For all the madness and
mayhem, little had changed. The Mann Village was still showing
“The Matrix Reloaded” four times a day. On television,
Fox’s 10 o’clock News still had an anchor named John
Beard who had no beard, and ABC’s telecast had a weatherman
with the moniker Dallas Raines.
Was nothing sacred? Was nothing sacred?
Jet-lagged, Christy and I grabbed soy mochas at the Starbucks on
Broxton and Weyburn and drank them outside, fighting for a patio
table with some classics student who’d downed a bottle of
NoDoz for finals. He was wired alright, but he was no match for
Christy’s judo capabilities.
As for us, since this was our final quarter at UCLA, we
naturally had no finals to study for, or we didn’t care any
longer, I forget which. What this left us to do, however, was
brood.
“We’re doomed,” I cried out loud.
“Murdoch and his Inner Circle won.”
Christy pulled a tattered sheet from my portfolio she always
carried and showed it to me. It was the first article I’d
written during my days on staff at Newark Memorial High
School’s award winning Cougar Times, a piece pretentiously
titled “Shoot Your Television.” It was a crude diatribe
about the state of television and the world, ugly in its precision,
but raw in energy and promise. I remembered that when it hit the
streets, local politicians and cable access producers feared it
like apes fear the mystery of fire.
“You’ve been at this for a while,” she
said.
“I haven’t made a dent yet.”
“That’s not true. Take a look around.”
She was right. While most of the students looked like they were
studying, most of them were actually either doing the Daily
Bruin’s crossword or reading the column about our quirky
adventures. A few tables away, Kenny G and John Tesh in an
eye-patch tore through it with fear and dread. Across from them was
director Ang Lee, sitting with Jennifer Connelly, who were also
enthralled.
“I know this sounds like the end to “˜X2,’ but
Murdoch knows you’re out there and that people are
reading,” Christy said. “I wouldn’t be surprised
if he’d want to turn us into a mini-series starring Brad Pitt
and Julia Roberts.”
“How about Edward Norton and Nicole Kidman?”
“Sure thing,” she said with a smile. “As long
as we get 15 percent of the gross and merchandising.”
She was right! Things were looking up ““ this was, after
all, the City of Dreams. Forget destroying the Inner Circle. That
was foolish compared to the damage we could inflict on the masses
by making it ours. The marketing capabilities felt endless.
I felt so good I grabbed Christy and kissed her, then threw her
into my ’89 Geo Spectrum and sped off to the beach at Santa
Monica with the windows rolled down. The streets were full of the
usual tragically hip, eagerly awaiting the summer reruns. If they
hadn’t seen it, it was new to them.
But for the rest of us, those of us crazy enough to do something
about it, the world had suddenly become a clear and beautiful
place, where reality TV gave way to a real life, one that
didn’t need a commercial break for a word from our national
sponsor.
It was ours for the taking.
Mahalo.