By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
It's Sunday night and I'm sitting at the bar in the Cactina trying to immerse myself in enough beer and conviviality to cleanse the pain of Ohio State's heartbreaking overtime loss to Michigan in the NCAA men's basketball tournament earlier that afternoon. Michigan's Fab Frosh have robbed me of a legitimate shot at the hypothetical office pool, which, if I were a betting person (and of course I'm not because, as we all know, sports gambling is illegal), and if I had picked Ohio State to go all the way, might have cost me a decent payoff in terms of both greenbacks and bragging rights around the offices of a certain news-and-arts weekly.
So there I sit, listening to Homer Wills and Ben Peeler, who regularly host this Sunday-night gig known affectionately as "Sideman's Revenge." Magda Hiller, a witty singer-songwriter with a fine set of pipes, best known for her solo acoustic performances at Key East, is the featured guest performer and is gamely keeping the restless crowd's mind off the jukebox while I try to find someone who knows anything about a) sports and b) basketball to commiserate with (or beat up, as the case may be).
I bump into Mr. Raul Malo, who I hereby dub THE GREATEST SINGER IN THE HISTORY OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION, and not just because he promised to buy me a pink Caddy when the Mavericks get their fist royalty check if I wrote that. Raul meets the first criterion, as he knows something about sports, but he's more of a football guy than a pill freak. (For readers who live in Kendall, "pill" is street-lingo for "basketball.") We take turns dissing the 'Fins, but when I bring up the subject of Laettner's miracle shot to catapult Duke into the Final Four, I am met with the blankest stare since I asked Malo, in the course of a conversation about a year ago, which Maverick the band was named after, Bret or Bart. (For the record, it was neither. The band was named for the classic automobile.) Thankfully, at about that exact moment, an attractive woman walks up and says howdy to the country-rock crooner, which, of course, is my cue to shut up and go bother someone else.
Unfortunately, the joint is crawling with musicians, and, assuming I were willing to curtail my alcohol consumption at that point, which I most emphatically was not, it would be at least an hour or two before I would be in any kind of condition to drive to another bar where the subject at hand might be roundball. My chances of bumping into anyone who knows that Duke is the name of more than just a hate-mongering presidential K-K-Kandidate are dwindling as quickly as my office-pool dreams. I am like a coach going into the fourth quarter of a game with all five of my starters in foul trouble.
I get sucked into an animated debate by one of your generic South Beach weekend bohemians over whether the movie Basic Instinct merits all the fuss. He insists that BI is homophobic, while I contend that if somebody wants to waste time protesting a movie, and is naive enough not to realize that one of the oldest but truest adages in the entertainment biz is "pickets sell tickets," then they ought to save their bitching for racist cinematic compost like White Men Can't Jump.
I am a white man, especially at this time of year when I haven't had a chance to hit the beach and play melanoma roulette. I have dunked a regulation-size basketball on a regulation-height basket without benefit of a mini-tramp. I even had witnesses, some of whom are still living. Of course, that was a long time ago. Nowadays I occasionally awaken from naps to find paleontologists studying me. Rusty hinges gauge each other's creakiness by their approximation to the sound my knees make when I when I get out of bed in the morning. Late morning.
The point is that if a middle-class, suburban, northeastern Ohio-bred, Wonder Bread-and-processed cheese, hopelessly white guy like me can work at it half-heartedly and eventually improve my jumping ability to the point where I can hurl an orange rubber sphere through a cylindrical metal rim with a great deal of velocity, then maybe the problem isn't so much one of race as one of willingness to work at something so completely pointless. Maybe too many white boys give up too easily, rationalizing that they would automatically jump higher, sing better, and have bigger penises if they had been born black. White Men, with its racist title and hackneyed, one-dimensional, stereotypical characters, reinforces that view.
What if the movie had been titled Black Men Can't Swim? Then you'd have seen some placards, brother. Nobody seems to realize (or care) that the implied corollary to "white men can't jump" is that black men don't have to work as hard to achieve athletic success. If I were Michael Jordan, I'd be pissed.
But this poor sap at the bar wants to talk about Basic Instinct. Okay, let's talk. What I want to know is how anyone can get all worked up over a film so far removed from reality that it asks viewers to believe Michael Douglas as a macho cop. If anyone has a right to protest this movie, it's cops. They are portrayed as slobbering, repressed, latent-homosexual boors with the exception of Douglas, who, in addition to these qualities, is also trigger-happy and stupid. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy the movie, just that I found it hard to take too seriously. How can one not enjoy a film that displays Sharon Stone's nude body so frequently and to such advantage?