Sunday Thoughts

This isn't salaciousness for its own sake, there's a point to this excerpt from one of David Foster Wallace's less pedantic essays, "Big Red Son," about his experience at the AVN Adult Video Awards in Las Vegas, NV. Eventually.

Mr. Harold Hecuba, whose magazine job entails reviewing dozens of adult releases every month, has an interesting vignette about a LAPD detective he met once when H.H.'s car got broken into and a whole box of Elegant Angel Inc. videotapes was stolen and subsequently recovered by the LAPD. A detective brought the box back to Hecuba personally, a gesture that H.H. remembered thinking was unusually thoughtful and conscientious until it emerged that the detective had really just used the box's return as an excuse to meet Hecuba, whose critical work he appeared to know, and to discuss the ins and outs of the adult-video industry.

It turned out that this detective - 60, happily married, a grandpa, shy, polite, clearly a decent guy - was a hard-core fan. He and Hecuba ended up over coffee, and when H.H. finally cleared his throat and asked the cop why such an obviously decent fellow squarely on the side of the law and civic virtue was a porn fan, the detective confessed that what drew him to the films was "the faces," i.e. the actresses' faces, i.e. those rare moments in orgasm or accidental tenderness when the starlets dropped their stylized "fuck-me-I'm-a-nasty-girl" sneer and became, suddenly, real people. "Sometimes - and you never know when, is the thing - sometimes all of a sudden they'll kind of reveal themselves" was the detective's way of putting it. "Their what-do-you-call...humanness." It turned out the LAPD detective found adult films moving, in fact far more so than most mainstream Hollywood movies, in which latter films actors - sometimes very gifted actors - go about feigning genuine humanity, i.e.: "In real movies, it's all on purpose. I suppose what I like in porno is the accident of it.

When I read this, all I could think is this is how I watch Kobe Bryant interviews (for clarity's sake: pants steadily fastened). In my pantheon of people who I'd gush over if they spoke to (at) me, Kobe ranks miles above the rest. In sizing up my collection of flawed idols, Brett Favre is a recovered painkiller addict and breakup nightmare. The Mars Volta is obnoxiously operatic in between their luminous glints. Obama may be a secret Muslim terrorist. Kobe may escaped Colorado rape charges via some ancient, legal alchemy (she asked for it?)... but he's not just an acquitted rapist he's my acquitted rapist.



As a professional athlete, rehearsing the rehearsal and shirking candor for palatable soundbites are the cost of doing mega-business. If I were a global icon whose persona was going to be equated to the product I was trying to sell, does it help to be cool or act relevant? The point is to move some shoes off the shelves.

Coming full circle to the Harold Hecuba story, I get that detective. I watch Kobe's interviews, parsing and sifting for the man behind the renovated billboard who just happens to be the most polarizing, basketball artist of the 00s. It doesn't matter where you slot him among the titans. All you need to know is that he stands shoulder to shoulder with them.
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I just wish he had the persona to match the improvisation, the body control/release, and the monomaniacal pursuit of excellence. It just isn't there. But that's unfair. Who doesn't lead a double life? Who doesn't have a work-voice they shuffle on and off when the phone rings at the office?



If excellence in arts is subjective (to the uninitiated), basketball, with its own cultural statements, stories and masters, should be too. The odds are long that your favorite player on your favorite team is arguably the best at his craft, so maybe I should just consider myself and stop thinking so hard about it.

With fandom as a crutch, you can rationalize your love for anyone. Is it too much to ask that your inner child's hero isn't also kind of a dick? I say no. So do these gents.

This entry was posted by VJ, on Sunday, July 20, 2008. You can leave your response.