A quick one today, mostly because I’m getting ready to move across the country on Thursday and the ball-dripping heat here has me lethargic.
Paul Newman may have cancer, Patrick Swayze does have cancer (not today’s news, obviously) and Martin Bashir has a tuma’. These news items make me sad inside and get me feeling a bit nostalgic. Allow me to tell you why.
First, let’s discuss Swayze. My girlfriend had a shitty gossip rag lying around the house the other day, a present to herself for finishing her new play, and in its tawdry, ludicrous pages was an article about Swayze. I didn’t read the article (does anyone?) but I did look at a picture that informed me Mr. Swayze lives on a ranch in Las Vegas, New Mexico.
Yes, you heard that right, that shit’s an hour from my house. And yes, I thought for a minute about visiting the man. Not to bug him, that would be wrong, just maybe coax him into reenacting his leap from the burning house in that glorious gem of a film, Road House. You know the leap I’m talking about; the one where he flaps his arms like delicate wings and leaps daintily through the air with the grace of a ballerina, saving his philosopher/bouncer character from the lashing orange flames. Needless to say, I didn’t act on my instincts, but instead chose to allow the man to fade away with dignity and grace. Like any ballerina deserves.
While I’ve had some time to digest Swayze’s demise, Paul Newman, my brother Matt’s favorite actor and the maker of one of my top three lemonades, struck a bit hard today. Matt idolizes him for his roles as Butch Cassidy, “Fast Eddie” Felson and “Cool Hand” Luke from… actually, if I have to tell you what films those characters are from, you should stop reading this. Seriously, fuck off. Go watch some Michael Bay film and try not to cry too much while you’re masturbating to Megan Fox’s leaked Jennifer’s Body photos this evening. I, on the other hand, prefer him as Lew Harper, Sully Sullivan and Doug Roberts from The Drowning Pool, Nobody’s Fool and The Towering Inferno.
I am also told that, in addition to lemonade, he makes wine now, a product that, if nothing else, can be used to cook with. So thumbs up to that! On a more serious note, the man is one of the few remaining Hollywood legends remaining, a class of “man’s man” actors that have died off in the new crop of “pretty boy” Hollywood actors. In the absence of Newman, all we’re left with is George Clooney’s Las Vegas cool and Robert Redford’s rapidly decaying looks that, while great, are no substitute. But hopefully, we’ll still have his lemonade.
And about Martin Bashir. Honestly, I couldn’t give a fuck. I just put him in there because I felt the need for a third name to play into the whole “rule of three” thing that my mother has forcibly instilled in me over the years. So yeah, fuck that guy, he got his big start by exploiting Michael Jackson’s crazy, as if that wasn’t easy enough. Just point a camera and wait, simple as that.
So with that said, let’s take a moment of silence for our ailing masters of the class. And while you’re at it, make a run at me. What’s your favorite role from these guys? Favorite scene? Favorite food product? I’m open and waiting, like a Thai whore.