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THE ENTERTAINMENT ISSUE
7/18/2005
Ageing Texas Rangers hurler Kenny Rogers (no, not the liposuctioned balladeer with chicken wings in his whiskers, the other Kenny Rogers) clearly had the stuff -- 10-4, 2.54 ERA -- to make this year’s All-Star team. Two recent episodes of bitch-slapping cameramen, however, should just as clearly have precluded his participation. Commissioner Bud Selig, often described as a drunken slob in a necktie, was so busy steering baseball’s ship smartly onto the rocks (think tie games and steroids) that Kenny obtruded himself onto the American League roster in time to serve up a home run to Atlanta’s Andruw [sic] Jones. The story, for all its compelling elements, was scarcely reported beyond our shores, though with the Tour de France and Open Championship going full-throttle, it would be rather presumptuous to expect the world to consider remarkable a sport so conspicuously renounced by the Olympics.

The IOC also gave thumbs down to New York and Paris in the process of selecting London as the host city for the 2012 Summer Games. New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s supplication comprised not one, but two hair-brained stadium schemes while Jacques Chirac, still smarting from the latest EU debacle, trotted out the tired inducements of fat hookers and skinny Cotes du Rhones. Chirac was utterly convinced he had successfully undermined his cross-channel rivals during the G8 summit when he declared, “You can't trust people who cook as badly as that; the only thing [the British] have ever given [us] is mad cow.” When the decision was formally announced, New Yorkers were openly relieved, having been less than enamored with the prospect of red terror alerts, paralyzing traffic, and a legacy of budgetary debasement. Parisians, on the other hand, were melodramatically despondent. French Sports Minister Jean-François Lamour said: “I can tell you our work was the best. I’m very disappointed. I feel there’s an empty hole in front of me.” Of course, days later, when terrorists reduced London’s mass-transit system to a series of smoldering holes, the Olympic rings, hazily viewed through the billowing soot, more resembled a yoke than a crown.

International consensus that Americans are little more than a well-armed cabal of beer-swilling red necks is uncomfortably close to the mark. NASCAR, embarrisingly, is our most popular spectator sport; speedy vehicles inducing fatalities by unpredictably bursting into flames continue to mesmerize us. Which explains our obsession with the now-obsolete Space Shuttle. Two years after Columbia disintegrated on re-entry and two decades after Challenger exploded during liftoff, Discovery’s highly anticipated launch was scrapped due to faulty fuel sensors. I guess we’ll have to, God forbid, actually change the channel to keep the drool flowing. Thankfully, there is a plethora of reality TV shows to keep us occupied between commercials.

Well, they’re not exactly real; that these programs are scripted became apparent when Hollywood writers sued producers of such shows as “The Bachelor” and “The Real Gilligan’s Island” over compensation issues. No matter, in the end, it’s all entertainment, anyways. Whether it started with Survivor or COPS is a matter of debate; that the genre has significantly evolved is unassailable. We now have celebrity-reality shows (“Being Bobby Brown”), competitive-has-been-reality shows (“Celebrity Fit Club”), overtly fake reality shows (“Lost”) and even fake celebrity-reality shows starring real celebrities (“The Comeback”). Because of low costs and high ratings, network executives are eager to recast yesterday’s washed-up entertainers as today’s “retro-celebs.” Fox’s Mike Darnell boasted to Newsweek, “In the last two weeks, we’ve been bombarded” with these kinds of pitches.

But where will it end? Even a red-carpet performer like Angelina Jolie is waxing nostalgic in her attempt to channel Mia Farrow. Before you cringe, consider that Mia, before her stint as a bent, straw-haired crone, graced the covers of VOGUE and GLAMOUR magazines and dozens of films. Both women come from show-biz families, are twice divorced, and remain obsessed with adopting third world babies. Mia has nine so far, which leaves Angie with some major catching up to do. The “Tomb Raider” star is just back from Africa (with Brad Pitt) after collecting as her second child a little Ethiopian girl. Unfortunately, upon their return, both Pitt and the newly named Zahara Marley Jolie were admitted to hospitals. Although a spokesman for L.A.’s Cedar-Sinai Medical Center said Pitt was suffering form viral meningitis, suspicion lingered of Ebola, which, for Africans at least, remains more prevalent and troubling than LIVE 8 concerts.

Speaking of viruses, Sandra Bullock exchanged vows with motorcycle mechanic Jesse James outside Santa Barbara this week. Even though the heavily tattooed James is the host of the reality show (what else?) “Monster Garage,” one would imagine that hitching to a bankable film actress would be a sizeable upgrade. Not so. James was previously married to porn queen Janine Lindemulder, who headlined such classics as “Monsters of Cock,” “King of the Load,” and “For the Love of Feet.” Jesse, sadly, no longer enjoys evenings of world-class tea bagging and snatchfulls of other men’s porridge. He must endure with a couple of martinis, a training-bra chest, and premières of the next three “Miss Congeniality” flicks. No wonder the past looks so good.