The Bull Years

by Phil Stern

  You know, why can’t all of life be like that? I mean, I’d love to walk around with stickers, and when somebody does something nice, they’d get a yellow sticker, or maybe even a green one. I don’t think I’d give out many blue ones unless somebody did something really nice, like maybe take me on a trip or something.

  Wouldn’t that be great? I mean, you could actually tell who the nice people were just by looking at their stickers! If a waiter came up and he was covered in yellow and green stickers, you’d know, instantly, that he was a nice waiter. If you met some girl at a club and you didn’t know if you’d like her, why, just look at her stickers! I bet you I’d have a lot of blue stickers. I’m a blue sticker kind of person.

  So look, I’ll do Steve’s project for him, but let’s get one thing straight. It’s great that his mom was a teacher and all, but a lot’s changed since the 1920's. I’m going to tell it like it is. No sugar coating.

  And if he stares down my fucking shirt one more time then I won’t do it anymore. That’s not respectful. Old guys need to know that.

  STEVE LEVINE

  I still haven’t been able to contact Brooke, so I asked this girl who lives in my building, Hayley, if she’d like to help with the Life Project. I’ve got to tell you, Hayley’s a hot little number. I think I may even have a shot with her. She’s a little young (for the Project, I mean, not for me) but a youthful perspective might help things along. Maybe she’ll write about shirts with plunging necklines. She certainly owns enough of them.

  All right, remember how I was talking before about the various jobs people have that they’d never in a million years dream of doing while growing up? Here’s a perfect one. The guys who scurry out, in the middle of a tennis match, to grab the balls that have hit the net.

  This fascinates me. First of all, who the fuck are these…and let’s be honest here…vaguely effeminate young men whose sole purpose in life appears to be grabbing other men’s used tennis balls? Are they failed players themselves, fated to some type of living purgatory watching the guys who made it? Perhaps there’s an orphanage behind each big tennis center and they simply clean up a few urchins and promise them an extra bowl of broth for the day? Does one put an ad in the paper? (“Ball Grabber Wanted. Thin, young, nervous boys for tennis ball retrieval. Race unimportant. Homosexuals preferred, though all orientations will be considered.”)

  Do you get paid by the ball? By the hour? Are there benefits? Does a Ball Grabber make fifty bucks a week, or is there some lucky guy, maybe the head Ball Grabber at Wimbledon, who makes a million dollars a year? Is there training pay? These are the things I wonder about sometimes.

  And how does Ball Grabbing look on a resume? I’d think a job interview might go something like this:

  “So, I see you were a…a Ball Grabber for two years?” the boss might ask, frowning at the resume.

  “That’s right, sir,” the Ball Grabber would proudly respond, puffing out his thin chest.

  Thoughtfully, the boss might then place the resume back on his desk. “So you would grab other men’s balls for a living?”

  “That’s right, sir. I’d grab all the balls I could.”

  Carefully, the boss would smooth out the crisp resume, considering his next question. “And this activity is something you freely admit to?”

  “Of course, sir. Actually, I really enjoyed the work.”

  “Being a ball grabber? You enjoyed this?”

  “Absolutely!” Now sitting up, the Ball Grabber realizes he’s with a sceptic. “Look, it takes a lot of hard work to grab balls!”

  “I’d imagine,” the boss might concede. “Simply dodging the police would take much skill and effort.”

  “The police…why…” With a sickening feeling, the Ball Grabber would then see the misunderstanding. “No, no! I would grab balls at tennis matches! I wouldn’t just grab anybody’s balls on the street!”

  “At tennis matches, you say? Don’t they have security for people like you?”

  “Security? What are you talking about? It was my job to grab balls!”

  “Of course it was,” the boss would cheerily reply, pushing a hidden button underneath the desk. “Do you still run around grabbing stranger’s balls, or is this something you’ve since overcome?”

  “What? They weren’t strangers. I’d meet them before the match!”

  At this point two hulking security men would burst through the door, dragging the shrieking Ball Grabber from the building. Unceremoniously dumped on the street, he would be warned never to enter the premises again.

  Look, I’m in a weird mood. In fact, I have a lot of strange thoughts I just need to get down, so don’t expect much sanity from this entry. I used to get this way on the air sometimes. Actually, I think those were my best shows.

  Perfect example. Let’s say I was doing a talk show on drunk driving. I might start off with something like this:

  “Alcoholism as a disease? Nonsense! Show me someone who believes that, and I’ll show you an f-ing drunk! Drinking is an addiction! To call it a disease means it’s out of your control, which it isn’t! A disease is something you get from a virus, or bacteria, or mutant cells, not an f-ing bottle of booze!”

  And by the way, in case you’re wondering, I wouldn’t actually say fucking on the air. At that time, however, we could get away with saying “eff-ing.” As in, “I saw two llamas f-ing by the side of the road yesterday.” The -uck part was never actually said. You get the idea.

  “Look, if it was really a disease,” I’d rant into the microphone, “then it wouldn’t be illegal to drink and drive! Are we a society that imprisons people for having a disease and driving? No. You can have all the colds you want and still legally drive!” This is what I called talk show clever. Yeah, I got paid for this.

  “Think about it!” I’d continue. “When you say someone is diseased, that means they’re a victim themselves! But a drunk driver isn’t a victim. A drunk driver is a criminal! There is nothing that more personifies modern-day America than this ridiculous idea that drinking is a disease! You don’t have a disease. You’re a god-damned drunk. And the sooner you face up to that, the happier you and everyone else will be!”

  The funny thing about this topic was that every snot-nose brat in the area would then call in, assuring me that alcoholism is a disease. Why? Their health teachers said so.

  “Oh, really?” I’d fire back. “Is your health teacher a drunk too?”

  “What?” In this case, the caller was an 18-year-old girl. “Oh, no. She’s a really good teacher!”

  “All right, let’s think about this. Name me one other disease somebody gets from a bottle of beer.”

  “What?” It usually didn’t take much to confuse a talk radio caller.

  “All right. Name me one other disease that non-drinkers are absolutely impervious to, and heavy drinkers acquire 100% of the time.”

  “But my teacher says it’s a disease! It says so in my health book.”

  “What about cocaine? Or heroin? Are those diseases or drugs?” Come on, I was good at this, you’ve got to admit.

  “What are you talking about? Drugs are illegal.”

  “So is drinking and driving. So is bank robbing. Could one rob a bank and get off by saying they have a disease that makes them rob banks? Could they?”

  “No, that’s stupid.” You could hear her sigh into the telephone. “How can stupid people like you be on the radio?”

  “I’m not the one defending drinking and driving!”

  “But it’s a disease!” she’d insist. “How can you be on the radio and still be so stupid?”

  “So I’m stupid, huh? Then answer me this.” Leaning back, I’d then give my call screener The Look. Desperately he would shake his head, but I was on a roll. “If your father had a bad day at work, and he came home and beat up your mother, would your father be a victim of a disease, or the perpetrator of a crime?”

  “But Daddy would never hit Mommy!”

  “Let’s say he did.�
�� Look, I’ll be the first one to admit that every talk show host in the world is going to Hell, but this girl made me do it. “Let’s say Daddy beat the crap out of Mommy, leaving her broken and bleeding in the middle of the kitchen.”

  “But Daddy wouldn’t do that! I love Daddy! Daddy loves Mommy!”

  “But if he did,” I’d persist. “Would your father be a victim of a disease, or guilty of a crime?”

  “Well,” the caller would finally sniff. “I mean, Daddy would never do that, but if he did…”

  “If he did…what?”

  “Well, Daddy shouldn’t hit Mommy, so it would be a crime.”

  “Really?” Gleefully, I’d then lower the boom. “But if Daddy got drunk before coming home and beating the crap out of Mommy, then Daddy’s simply the victim of a disease, right? Mommy has no right to complain? Everyone just needs to understand Daddy’s disease?”

  “What? No!”

  “By the way, what size bra do you wear?”

  “What? 34-C. Why do you ask?”

  “Ummm, that’s nice.” At this point I might put some sultry music on underneath the caller. “And how much do you weigh?”

  “121 pounds. But my father…”

  “And how tall?”

  “Five foot nine. But like I was saying…”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” Usually I’d put some bed springs on within the sultry music, like the two of us were having sex right there on the radio. “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Strawberry blonde. With highlights.”

  “I bet you get asked out a lot.”

  “Yeah.” Giggle. “I do.”

  “I don’t believe you’re a 34-C. You might have to come down here to the radio station and show me a bra tag.”

  “Maybe I could show you more than that.” Another giggle.

  And on it would go, caller after caller. They always left happy. It was great fun.

  Of course, the next day I’d get yelled at by my general manager, whose wife’s hair dresser said I’d been an asshole. All the ladies in the beauty parlor thought so, along with all their friends, every single one of whom listened to me every day just to hear what crazy thing I was going to say next. Of course it was my fault the radio station was in the toilet.

  My ratings always went up. People would ask for my autograph. But that was another life

  By the way, apropos of nothing, I absolutely detest hospital shows. Can’t stand them. I particularly hate that stereotypical hospital-drama scene where two nurses are crying about the cute kid dying of cancer upstairs when someone is rushed through the front door, flailing about, internal organs bouncing all over the floor, with mere seconds to live. Everyone screams “Stat! Stat!” for no particular reason while yelling for the chief surgeon, who of course isn’t there because he’s off banging the cancer kid’s horny young mother. So the super hot, inexperienced intern, who just came on duty following a bi-curious interlude with another hot intern, is forced to do some procedure she only heard about last night on a home shopping channel. It’s all right, though, as she’s guided through the procedure by the spirit of her dead lover, who, while never a doctor, is a spirit, so he knows things. Everyone survives, including the cancer kid, but not before several characters pompously opine on the true meaning of modern medicine before sleeping with someone they swore they’d never sleep with.

  I will never, ever, buy a car from a dealer who puts their kids in the television commercial. I’d rather ride a camel to work than give business to someone who inflicts their shitty brats on me that way.

  One more thing I have to mention. It’s been bothering me all day.

  Last night I was in a restaurant. An older couple sat at the next table. When the waitress came up, the guy proudly ordered the “Hawaiian Steak.” He said he loved it, had eaten it several times before, and had been looking forward to it all day.

  You know what the fucking waitress said? She told the guy the Hawaiian Steak was a special they discontinued last week. Sorry. Order something else.

  The senior’s face fell. He tried ordering the Hawaiian Steak two more times, growing more confused and agitated. The waitress finally barked at him not to waste her time and walked off.

  Now, let’s think about this a second. Wouldn’t any sane, compassionate person, seeing how set this guy was on his favorite meal, just tell the cook to throw a fucking pineapple on a steak and bring it out to the guy? You know, and I know, that’s all the “Hawaiian Steak” really was. Just their regular steak with a pineapple on top and maybe an extra lump of parsley as a garnish. I mean, give me a fucking break.

  After the waitress stalked off the old guy looked like he was about to cry. His wife just took his hand. They sat like that for a few minutes, then just got up and left.

  Some people have so little to look forward to. I’d have gotten that guy his Hawaiian Steak no matter what. For so little effort on her part, it would have made that guy’s entire day.

  LATER ON:

  Listen, I’m still in this whacked out mood, and I’ve got to get this down while I’m thinking about it.

  I saw a story this evening about a really hot cable news anchor that’s getting married. She’s smart and beautiful. You know, the whole deal. But I’ve never met her. This news babe doesn’t even know I exist. Reading on down in the story, she’s known her prospective husband since college. They’ve been engaged for two years.

  So why do I almost feel as if she’s cheating on me to marry this other guy? Is that normal?

  I’m sure it has something to do with Sophia and her television appearances. I mean, look, she’s exactly the kind of hot, brainy chick the cable stations love to throw on there on the slightest pretext.

  Actually, I’m glad for Sophia. At one point it really looked like she was heading for a dark place, but I guess she’s okay now.

  SOPHIA DANTON

  Growing up in the Danton household, family life revolved around two central tenants; religion and frugality.

  In retrospect both were carried way too far, creating a distorted reality utterly at odds with the outside world. Each of my siblings has tried to resolve this obvious contradiction with varying degrees of success. My parents themselves have slowly become dysfunctional, never understanding the process ultimately undoing them both.

  Church every Sunday was a given, robust priests bewailing sin and mayhem in the modern world. Biblical quotations adorned our family walls. We were only allowed to watch “approved” television programs, though never the news, while newspapers and magazines weren’t permitted in our home. The mysticism thus created was probably one of the main motivations drawing me to a media career.

  I was a very attractive girl, mature beyond my years, often approached by modeling and casting people. One top agency wanted to bring me in for test shots. Of course, Mom wouldn’t hear of it.

  You know what’s strange, though? Mom loved for me to look good. She’d often buy me sexy clothes, with plunging necklines and tight waists. Sometimes even I was shocked at her choices. Of course these outfits generated the kind of attention from men she most wanted to discourage, though she never seemed to understand that.

  Right up until college, in fact, my social life was rigidly controlled. Dating was essentially prohibited. On rare occasions I was allowed to accompany boys for a walk around the park on a Sunday afternoon, though Mother would be waiting on a bench, keeping a close eye on things. Dances, parties, and proms were out of the question. Even my few girlfriends were banished if Mom or Dad felt they were a “bad” influence.

  Actually, Mom had a rather simplistic view of my female classmates. They were all whores, a view she often and firmly expressed after picking me up at school or passing by someone in town. The other girls (and their mothers) were very aware of Mom’s opinion, leaving me largely isolated and alone. Thus, into my junior year of high school, when other kids were partying or just hanging out, I was usually at home, becoming dangerously depressed.

  Of course, sex before m
arriage would be unthinkable, though as I moved into my teen years a horrible double-standard soon became apparent. My older brother Michael was supposed to remain pure, though if he happened to stay out late with a girl and maybe sleep over at her house it wasn’t a big deal. But if I wasn’t home by some absurdly early curfew, my father would begin a grim search while Mom called the cops.

  Of course, given Michael’s obvious sexual preferences later on in life there’s a certain irony in all this, though I don’t believe my parents would appreciate it very much.

  And where religion couldn’t totally isolate me, money could. My parents were millionaires living in Scarsdale, but we couldn’t have a phone. What did a land line cost back then, $60 a month? Well, a phone was too expensive. Of course, Daddy had a “work” phone locked in a cabinet by his bed, but I was never allowed to use it. Michael, however, had been permitted to use Daddy’s phone since he was fourteen. As was my younger brother Brian when he reached fourteen. And by the time Liz reached high school, the phone had been moved out into the kitchen for everybody to use, like a normal family. I was the only child denied phone privileges.

  To this day I feel a pang of jealousy watching teenage girls on their cell phones. I don’t know if the kids today realize that a short generation ago such things didn’t exist.

  We weren’t allowed to see movies. Way too expensive. Except when Michael and Daddy wanted to see an action film, then suddenly male bonding won out over cost. I begged Mommy to take me to a movie, maybe even a G-rated film, but she said Hollywood was sinful and we shouldn’t support it. I had to wait until college to see the inside of a movie theater.

  By the way, both my sister and I were named after actresses, myself for Sophia Loren, Liz for Elizabeth Taylor. In other words, we were proudly named after sex symbols of a “sinful” industry, whose movies I was forbidden from viewing. Think my mother was maybe a little confused?