Big Daddy Cool ([email protected])
Wed, 30 Sep 1998 10:48:02 -0400 (EDT)
It was, of course, the thong that got the most attention. Yes,
Lyndon, as I said, it was there all along.
But, before I get into the wondrous events that comprised the 2nd
Annual Amnesty Int'l USA Media Spotlight Awards (coinciding with the 2nd
Annual WIRE presence at these awards), a few observations:
- Patrick Stewart has amazing skin.
- Suzanne Vega is a stunning woman.
- Harry Belafonte is absofuckinglutely gorgeous.
- Mike Wallace is beefy.
- Julia Roberts needs a stylist. Badly.
- Sweet Honey in the Rock know more about soul than anyone on the
charts today. Period.
- Muhammed Ali is as big in real life as he is in your
imagination.
- Natalie Cole has big hair.
- I have changed my opinion about Richard Gere.
- Harrison Ford is absofuckinglutely gorgeous.
- violins are better for young children than guns.
- the paparazzi know when youUre not famous, no matter how hard
you try to convince them you are.
- The WIRE reps at this dinner were, as a whole, absofuckinglutely
gorgeous.
There is obviously more than this. One can be cynical when
sitting in a room with the glitterarti, clinking their glasses of
Tanqueray and murmuring about Richard Gere and Wes Craven and whatnot.
One can wonder about the Vera Wangs and Armani suits, the kudos to those
who provide the world entertainment and up-to-the-minute suicides and
gossip lies. But an event like this can also show you that the world is
about as bad as you could imagine, and that the things under your bed were
tame compared to the things outside your door. It can show you what
oppression and lack of freedom really mean. And, events like this show us
that there are people out there who are trying to brighten the corners
that many want to remain dark, and they're using the world's most hated
tool for the best intention: to tell the truth.
But first, let me comment on my colleagues, a fascinating rogue's
gallery of Who's Hiding Under An Assumed Name. We start with David
"You'll Recognize me I'm an Artist" Harth, NYC resident and one good
lookin' mofo, if I say so myself. We move next to Maggie "Is This Dress
Too Much?" Huber, fresh outta Shirlington, who added a major touch of
class to our table. Then there was Lyndon "I'm not even American yet I
sound more Patriotic than You Tossers" Nixon, who flaunted convention in
his grey heather shirt and almost too Trainspotting hair, yet one was lost
in his soulful eyes and mellifluous voice. My wife Nancy and I simply
tried to fit in with this glorious mosaic that represented WIRE, and I can
only hope that we served you well. After enduring the usual greeting I get
from Wirelings ("Hey, you're not black!"), and sadly missing my opera
cloak due to an unfortunate incident with processed meat and an incense
burner (don't ask), I had to summon up all the style my anthropologist
budget could handle. Yes, it was that bad. My wife, of course, was
radiant, and was a hit with our fellow e-mailers. In more tragic news,
Scott "Look out here comes my last name" Jay and his friend Matt "You
thought you had trouble with Scott's check out" Mastronunzio could not
make it, presumably because INTERPOL had caught up to them at last.
My wife and I were unable to meet the gang prior to the event, due
to the result of our reproductive prowess. We made record time into the
city, and made it to Pier 60 just as The Greatest was entering the
paparazzi ring. Nancy and I stood back, and while we received the
once-over by these polite but virulent creatures, it was clear that we
were not of the body, so to speak.
Nevertheless, the scene inside was quite festive, and I made sure
that Nancy got to meet Patrick Stewart, one of her favorite thespians
(anyone see "Jeremy?"). Ran into Suzanne Vega for the second time in my
life, and stood behind the Greatest as he was surrounded by the dazed and
delirious. Almost got to say hello to Harrison Ford, but my man David got
to him first. I harbor no grudges, for David sought Ford not for
gratuitous flesh-pressing, but in the name of Art. Or so he told me.
After a few more shots of Cuervo, and telling Mike Wallace that he
had a nice ass, which went much better than I expected, we found our way
to our table. We were fairly distant from the Here and Now people, but
not all the way in the back, which meant that we were, indeed, somebody.
Dinner was what youUd expect from a $250 a plate spread in NYC:
tasty, quick in delivery and exit, and served by young men and women who
clearly were waiting for that next call. The room was alive with cell
phones, and I could see Julia Roberts back from where I sat. No amount of
hysterical waving or shouting could get her to our table, though, so I had
to sit down again.
The awards were actually very interesting, ranging from the best
prices on Chinese corneas to massacres in places you may never get to via
your travel agent to my personal favorite, police brutality here in the
USA. I like the balls of an organization that can risk alienating the
home team by demonstrating our own shortcomings. Harry Wu was there, an
award for Colin Nickerson, who some of us might remember reporting from
Sarejevo during our boysU prior tour. I changed my mind about Gere after
hearing that he had been involved in the Tibet crisis since 1981,
indicating more than just celebrity chic. The best thing to ever happen
to communications, Public Radio International, was honored for "The
World." Melissa Matheson, the screenwriter for Scorcese's "Kundun," was
also there.
Amnesty is also celebrating the 50th Anniversary of the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights (1998-50= 1948, so you can figger out why it
was written). Issues of Imperialism and Western ideology aside, this
document stands as something we should be as a people. In fact, we
shouldn't need it at all, but that's another story...
Dinner was a whirlwind, and the conversation at our table was
lively. There was the usual concert chat, the go-go dance on the table
courtesy of Lyndon, the improvised beat poetry by David, and a rather
eerie impersonation of Robert DeNiro by Maggie. I, in fact, spent most of
the dinner taking my table neighbor's silverware, taking the "work from
the outside in" etiquette tip to its logical conclusion. I also
periodically yelled "IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNDDYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!" to
Mr. Ford's table during dessert. My wife, God love, her, called our
attorney.
The highlight was Mr. Ali's award. Never a real sports fan, I
have always had a thing for boxing, but various socioeconomic aspects of
the sport put me off (as well as biting, I think). To find out that this
man, who represents not only the best athlete of the 20th century
(really), not only a revolutionary American in both demeanor and
stridency, and not only an man with a life story that reads like "The
Odyssey;" to find out that this man has devoted his life to championing
those living in the "developing world" (a horrific term if I ever heard
one), was stunning. As I said previously, he is as big as you would
imagine him, and to have seen him speak to the audience, slowly, with
effort, but with the characteristic strength and inflection I remember
hearing as a boy, it was pretty amazing. Then I saw Richard Gere pass my
table, and I wrapped my arms around my neck, chanting "I am the greatest!
Thrilla in Manila, Dick!! Thrilla in Manila!!" That pretty much closed
the evening.
As we left the gala, a large book was at the door for all to sign.
We all took turns signing (my signature bore RIN THE NAME OF LOVE - U2
WIRES emblazoned above it), and then walked into that cold dark night,
feeling a little more special, a little more human. Then the paparazzi
saw Julia again, and we were back to being our boring old selves.
Internet geeks, some may call us, but I consider last night to be one of
the finest I have had, and I was proud of the company I kept. Even of
Lyndon. Sadly, Nancy and I had to get back to the little rugrat at home,
but I admonished my colleagues to have a drink before separating, to enjoy
that period of the night Bono called the Magic Hour, and to let that
feeling envelope them for just a few moments longer.
It was a grand affair, and I think that you would be proud of us.
None of us were thrown out, after all. But such events never end with a
high note, as the back of the program had data on two people who needed
help. Fred MUMembe of Zambia, imprisoned in May 1996. Journalist.
Sentenced to "indefinite detention" for criticizing the government. Daw
San San Nwe of Myanmar, imprisoned in August 1994. Journalist. Sentenced
to seven years for criticizing the government.
Shine your flashlights under your beds, and you'll never see the
real monsters. Stop reading this and do something.
Thanks for the opportunity to represent you,
Gary P. Aronsen
Nancy E. Todd
p.s. If there are omissions, or flagrant lies, they are mine, unless it
regards David or Lyndon, who did everything I wrote here and more. Maggie
is a federal employee, and therefore can refer to her previous statements.
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.0b2 on Wed Sep 30 1998 - 07:52:30 PDT