Is It Just Me?: Or is it Nuts Out There? Page 2

  Who the hell wants to be subjected to all the prying? Ask yourself. If you had the shot, would you want all your business hanging out there like that? I hear you. Who would?

  Let he who is without sin run for office, because everyone else would never pass the test. Or put up with it.

  Too bad. It would be nice to have more people running our government who have lived different lives. But we’ve made it impossible for those people to step forward. There’s too much scrutiny. First your bank accounts get pawed through. Then they start pontificating about your affiliations with subversive groups. You know, like AAA and Sam’s Club. And suddenly, some distant cousin finds himself as the lead story on the news. Why? Because someone investigating you ended up discovering poor old cuz smoked pot in college. And what really upsets you is that he never shared.

  And then there was that library book you checked out on—gasp!—human anatomy. Hey, judging from what most politicians are into these days, at least it was humans.

  The whole process is a barrage of invasiveness. What have you done? Who did you do it with? . . . And then there’s all those forms to fill out.

  Now, of course, I am not perfect. I am really imperfect.

  That’s why I’ll never run for office. Because you have to be too clean. I am not clean. I’ve had a lot of mud. Forget the skeletons, I’ve got the mud. And, know what? I don’t want to have to explain me to anybody.

  I think we’re all better off with me here on the sidelines, doing me.

  Chapter 3

  Group Insult

  Let me see . . . We’ve had the New Deal. We’ve had the Great Society. I think this era has a name too. Know what I think it is? I think it’s the Fugliness. And not because of all the bad plastic surgery out there. I call it that because politicians aren’t just ugly with each other. Now it’s whole groups of folks . . . and often, the politicians won’t come out and say who they are talking about—like Arizona. In Arizona, they keep saying “illegal aliens,” but to me, that’s ALL illegals . . . British, Italian, Greek, Africans, Chinese, Canadians . . . It’s a long list of those not here legally. So let’s find them. Make them go through the process, right? I’m down for that.

  However, that’s NOT what they mean in Arizona. They mean Mexicans, so why not have the balls to say what they mean? Come out and say, “We want the right to check the papers of anyone WE think might be an illegal Mexican.” Because if they had to look at those words, they would have to look at their own BS—and see themselves the same way we see the Nazi period when they did a similar thing.

  Or how about when they talk about the welfare system and they always just love to flash somebody’s picture up abusing welfare in some flamboyant way. Like folks all over the country are just sitting around drinking and partying—enjoying the good life on the dole.

  Ahh . . . nothing like it.

  Guess what? People on welfare generally don’t want to be there. They want to get off welfare.

  But, you see, politicians like to label groups in order to manipulate public opinion to their way of thinking. And nothing gets attention faster than demonizing somebody. Put a face on the problem, but don’t leave off the devil horns! They say, “Oh, look at those people over there collecting fifteen checks and beating the system, taking money out of your pocket.” Well, yeah, there are people who are doing that. There are people who did that in the white-collar sector too. It’s not just welfare recipients that double-dip.

  How about Enron, or Bernie Madoff, or any of those Wall Street bailout guys who were broke but still throwing lavish parties? Want to talk about abusing a system? The bill for the ice sculptures at those parties was higher than that junk mortgage they sold you. But we don’t feel like they’re the ones doing it to us. Somehow when talk turns to people on welfare, they’re the culprits, they’re the people who are screwing us. It’s always, “We were able to make it. Why can’t they?” . . . Which sounds a whole lot like, “I have my ice sculpture, where’s yours?”

  But I think that’s probably changed a lot now since the recession. Because I think people started to see that unexpected things come up, and folks can’t be so certain where they’re going to be. And if that’s you, you want there to be a safety net in place. You want the welfare system to be there for you. The whole reason for these programs is to help when the unexpected happens—to anyone.

  Like health care. I’m glad that the coverage passed. Because the truth of the matter is none of us knows when we’re going to need it. And all those folks who say, no, no, we’re never going to need it, they have to take a look at what’s going on. Who ever thought they were going to lose their job? You worked for folks and you thought you had a lifelong job with them. No more.

  So because nobody knows if they themselves are going to end up needing assistance, I’d be very cautious before I insulted a whole group of people over stories you see about the bad apples taking cruises and drinking champagne in welfare hot tubs.

  Like I said, there are those people, they do exist. But, come on. We all know a small percentage of frauds don’t make up the entire system. It’s like pregnancy. Pregnant teenagers don’t make up that entire picture. Black people on welfare don’t make up that entire picture. Most folks don’t realize the people who benefited most from Affirmative Action were women . . . and white women were topping the list. Why? Because they were able to go into the work force and into colleges in a way that they’d never been able to before. They are the biggest recipients of Affirmative Action—women! But when you listen to people talk about Affirmative Action, it’s all, “Oh . . . all those black kids . . . getting everything just handed to them.” So you’ve got to pay attention. ’Cause there’s a lot of information out there that is sort of semi-right but not totally.

  And here’s something else. I know what I’m talking about when I talk about the value of welfare because I was on it.

  And thank God for the welfare system.

  It helped me through a very tough time. When I went on it, I knew I was going to get a job eventually. And when I did get on my feet, I sent the check back. Yup. I didn’t need it. I wrote a little note that I put in with it and said, “I’ve managed to get myself some work and I don’t think I’ll be needing these anymore. So please remove me from the roll.”

  Many people do that, send their last checks back.

  You don’t hear about that from detractors, do you? No, because detractors don’t care about the facts. That’s the saddest part about so many things. Facts no longer seem to matter. And then when the truth comes out, it’s way the hell back on page ninety with little, tiny, unreadable print.

  They save the big type for the insults. Why? Because every cause needs a demon.

  Chapter 4

  Big Blogger

  Look at you there. Sitting back, quietly holding this book. Know what you’re doing? You are enjoying something so rare, you might not recognize it. Know what it is?

  You are having a private moment.

  Is it just me, or does it seem there is no such thing as a private life anymore? Big Brother is here watching you. Except he’s doing it through his blog instead of some science fiction telescreen. Hey, forget the government. This ass-kicking our privacy is getting comes at the exact same time regular folks have lost any sense of respecting a personal boundary. Personal boundaries . . . pardon me while I get nostalgic. Ahhh . . . those were quaint times, weren’t they?

  Hey, and in case you’re wondering, this isn’t some boo-hoo from some whiny celebrity. Check yourself. It doesn’t matter if you are famous or not. Not with YouTube and Facebook and Twitter and all the other things that are out there now. It’s the same for everyone. There is no privacy. And we brought this on ourselves.

  Cell phones. Man, have cell phones changed the game. How? Simple. They have cameras and video on them.

  Anything I do or anywhere I go, someone with a cell phone is there to take a picture or to pick up something I am overheard saying, and then it can be taken o
ut of context. And after it happens, I’ve learned there’s no point in clarifying. People don’t want to listen.

  It feels like people don’t want you at your best, they want you at your worst. That’s where we’ve been heading. I guess it makes other people feel better about their own lives.

  That’s why I’m going off on this shift away from respecting boundaries. We haven’t just crossed them. We’ve crossed them, kicked dirt on them, obliterated the lines, and then let the dog come take a pee on them. They’re gone, baby, gone.

  Not long ago in Manhattan, a blog did an instant posting. “Whoopi’s in the Apple store.” People showed up.

  And they chased me.

  I don’t like that. Does that surprise you? It lets people driving around looking for me know where I am. Or anybody who wants to do me any harm. Why do they get to do that? Why does some anonymous goofball get to print my whereabouts? It seems wrong on so many levels.

  But it’s not going to change, so, all right, you make a decision to deal with it. You make it work.

  Michael Jackson did that. Michael couldn’t go to an amusement park. So he built an amusement park inside his velvet prison.

  We live in prisons of our own making.

  Where do I get my freedom? In a book. On my couch, farting. Eating Wise Potato Chips. Not having to make any explanation to anybody about how many I’m eating or why I’m still smoking.

  Home. That’s my freedom.

  What is yours? I sure hope you are able to enjoy whatever it is. Because if you are not a famous person and think you are immune, think again. Anything can come back and bite you if you put it out there on Twitter.

  People out there—ex-lovers, business rivals, bosses, coworkers, former schoolmates harboring a grudge you forgot about long ago—don’t always have your best interests at heart. Something you said or did—innocently, even—a long time ago on a video or in a picture can come back to haunt you.

  It’s easy now for private things to be made public, and when you say or do what you feel in a public space, prepare yourself, my friend. Hear my warning. You can no longer be surprised by the result. And there’s no space more public than the Internet.

  It might be cute to get drunk and take your top off in Venice. Woo-hoo, right? But if you put a picture of that out on the Web for your friends, you have no control over who else sees it—or what happens to it after you post it. Or what happens if the friends stop being friends. That put a little ice in your blood, didn’t it?

  Listen, the only place you should have nude pictures of yourself is at your house. No one else should be able to look at that. Unless they come to your house and you show them. Woo-hoo.

  And, heads up. If you are willing to stay in a job that you hate, and have all sorts of things to say about how bad it is and what monsters they are—sure, tell your friends. But do it privately. Don’t post it on the Internet.

  Because nothing is anonymous anymore. There are no secrets anymore. And if it can come back to bite you on the ass, it will.

  Now everything’s online. But no one asked me if I want my private information on the Internet.

  Did they ask you?

  Chapter 5

  If You Can’t Be Witty, Don’t Be Shitty

  OK, here’s what I want to know. What makes somebody get up in the morning and think that they can criticize what clothes you put on that day? I mean, really. Why do casual coworkers think you and I are fair game for their fashion assessment? “Hey, second time I’ve seen those pants this week.” “That sweater has an interesting texture. What is it, ShamWow?” “Helen, is that blouse a little young for you?”

  What???

  Baby, you have a false sense of intimacy. Have you looked in the mirror? Are you really close enough to me or any other person to say something like that and know that your mouth isn’t hurting their feelings? Are the objects of your ridicule close enough to you to be allowed to do the same thing to you?

  Uh-huh . . . didn’t think so.

  These people have no license to critique what we have on. But that’s not bad enough. They try to make a joke out of it. Notice I say “try,” because most times? It’s not even a funny one. This assumed intimacy they have is pure fantasy. Time to wake up. Hey, fashion comic: We are not intimate. Just because we work together doesn’t instantaneously make you my friend. Or my comedy cohort.

  Most people don’t know how to be funny. Or witty. That is still an art form. So they attempt humorous critiques that end up coming off cruel. Funny is hit or miss sometimes, especially when it’s at the expense of other people. Last I checked, funny is to make folks laugh, not send them crying to the bathroom.

  Here’s the thing. Unless you have a relationship with someone, do not say anything about their apparel unless it’s useful. Like your pants are on fire. Because I would want to know that . . . Otherwise, keep walking.

  When I first hit the movie scene, I took a lot of flak for my style, my dreads, my clothes—for being myself. Hey, pretty much, I’ve always just been me. And I guess I have proved myself correct in staying true to who I am. Don’t think I could do it any other way. Want to know what I think fashion is all about? Real fashion is the fashion of my soul.

  But looking back, I think perhaps some folks just weren’t ready for me. Think of what Hollywood was all about. They’d never had any experience with anyone like me. Or who looked like me or who sounded like me. So they had to sort of deal with their own issues on race and hair and what’s beautiful and what isn’t beautiful.

  But I also separate the actor me from the daily me. When you’re an actor you have to look different for your role. That makes sense, right? So you put the wigs on, you put the eyebrows on, and do what you’re supposed to do to create the right look for your character. Sometimes it’s kind of fun doing that kind of dress-up. But once I come out of a role and finish a job, I don’t want anybody telling me what I’m supposed to look like. Or tell me that I’m wrong because I look a certain way. Or not the way they think I should be looking.

  If I’m not working, I am about one thing and one thing only. I am all about being comfortable. I dress in a way that makes me happy. And for sure not to please others.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love looking at fashion. I love fashion, I do. But you’ve got to know this about your friend Whoop. I’m not willing to run, or ride a bike, or exercise, or go to the gym. Not more than twice a year, anyway.

  The fact is, I will never be six two. Things I wear will look different on me than someone else. So I wear what I like. I like jeans. I really like jeans. I also like high heels. I love great shoes. So that’s what you’ll see me in a lot.

  Not too long ago there was this thing in TV Guide where these two women who I don’t know and who don’t know me proceeded to talk about what my character was all about based on what I wear. What?? Excuse me? You can’t do that. These were just two people making snide remarks. Don’t need ’em.

  Here’s what I say to that. Do not equate my brain with my jeans.

  And it’s not just me. Remember what the fashion big mouths were saying about Jessica Simpson? Looking at her magazine pictures, sucking their teeth, going, “Oh, look at her in her ‘mom jeans.’ ” Know what? That is an unnecessarily cheap shot at her and kinda lousy to moms at the same time. Who the hell are they to say that? What gratification does it give them to be mean at someone’s expense?

  People made nasty comments like that about President Obama. They made an issue of his jeans when he threw out the first ball at the All-Star game in St. Louis. Why? Who was he bothering? Come on.

  The tabloids, celebrity mags, and TV entertainment shows do fashion critiques all the time. But it’s not about fashion, it’s about trashin’. Their specialty is “Celebrity Cellulite!”—running unflattering pictures of stars at the beach and saying who should give up the bikini and go for the one-piece. And this is acceptable? This is a mark of journalism in a civil society, to take ambush pictures of people at the beach? And if the camer
a was turned around and pointed the other way, what would that look like?

  Eesh. Don’t wanna know.

  Maybe these public fashion attacks are what give your close personal pal, the office comedian, the idea that it’s all right to riff on what you’re wearing. Personally, I’d tell him to save it. Save it for his awesome Borat impression at the company picnic.

  Chapter 6

  Then Maybe You Should Stop Complaining

  Look, we all get bugged by stuff people pull on us from time to time. What am I talking about? I’m talking about office gossip. I’m talking about folks trash talking you behind your back. Or stealing credit for something you did. Or making you the goat for something they screwed up.

  Oh, that never happens to you? Then you must be independently wealthy from the lottery . . . ’cause the rest of us have to deal.

  If someone’s behavior is driving you crazy, here’s the thing. Recognize that you have options. Here they are. Ready? You can ignore it, you can bitch about it, or you can make an attempt to fix it. It all depends on how badly you want to change the situation.

  You can leave it alone and be nervous about it all the time and not ever try to correct it, or you can talk to the person and do something about it. But if it’s a matter of, “Oh, I’m too scared to do that,” then you don’t actually want to change the situation. Sorry, but that’s the truth. So what do you do?

  Make a decision. What’s it worth to you?

  Oh, yeah, I know it’s going to get ugly. And you kind of have to know what you’re getting into when you stir the bees’ nest. Take a sec. Pause and examine yourself and see if it’s worth the tension if you confront this person. But you also have to ask yourself, is that one moment of tension worse than what you’re dealing with on an ongoing basis? Only you know.