Hang Michael Richards

So, thank God the media found the last white man in America to harbor any unspoken racist feelings. In Cosmo Kramer, no less. Is anyone else already sick of this story? They dragged the poor guy out on Letterman in the middle of an interview with (my all-time favorite comedian) Jerry Seinfeld and then proceeded to have the most awkward five minutes of television since Tasha Yar made it with Lieutenant Data.

Here is the bottom line: either we can all use the N-word, or nobody can. If it's an evil word, which I believe it is, let us not brandish it, nor define ourselves by it, nor laugh at it. Black comics use this word all the time, but if a white guy uses it, all of a sudden Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton must be appeased. The great 'racial divide' is exposed. I think the bigger problem Al Sharpton should be worried about are the black people who go on Maury Povich. This is about the worst possible representation of a minority you can have, every day affirming the stereotypes of blacks as promiscuous, out of control, dumb, hypersexual, etc... I slept with 10 men and I don't know who the daddy be! You done slept with ma daughter and wife at the same time! Maury should paint his face black and his lips red and sing "Swanee" as his opening monologue.

Yes, Michael Richards is an ass, and at least he has the benefit now of being forced to confront his own racism. I believe him when he said he didn't know he was a racist; this stuff is in the water we drink, no matter how many posters of Martin Luther King they put up. But come on, to roll him out and publicly lacerate him as the only racist white man in America is, frankly, retarded and distracts from the larger institutional racism that is really the enemy of equality.

Anyways. The Captain's Blog is sailing into uncharted territory with the whole race thing, but this particular instance made me mad as hell. It is a distraction from the real problem. We like to pretend by humiliating Cosmo Kramer we've somehow confronted our own racism and made it all better.

The one upside of this is a new phrase, which I did not coin but would like to continue, and that is to "go Cosmo Kramer on his ass." This is interchangeable with "Go all Mel Gibson on him," and both denote totally flipping your shit. Let the games begin.

Life. I wish I knew how to dance. I have a suspicion that most of the problems in my life would be solved if knew how to move my feet in a compelling way. Many things are going well, don't let my attention to negative details cloud that: Christmas is coming, I'm healthy if heavy, Jess and I are doing as well as we can, Mat and I meet often for hilarious and productive writer's meetings. It's just that I feel like I'm twirling in a circle, round and round, slowly draining into another universe, where dreams become the word "can't" and nobody knows how to sing. [I should put a sign up here that says "Caution: Metaphors."] I wish I wish I wish I had a clue, an inkling, about what I wanted to be when I grow up.

I had an interview at UPS on Tuesday morning. [How do people keep up with these blogs? I have like 100 things I want to write about.] I'll save it for another post, but I'll leave you with these images: cinder block, maroon, glacier, Robert Farence, raffle, lemon-scented, and 1989. If you know that of which I speak, leave now, for I am but the learner and you are the master. For the rest, I'll post tomorrow.

sweet dreams. may your tomorrows be brighter than your todays, and your forevers longer than your nevers,

martin