by
Michael Dare
It's now been 18 years since I accidentally got
plunged squarely into the history books of total insanity. Like most tales of
madness, it starts out simple, then disintegrates into chaos with
frightening inexorability. I was always
skeptical when I read that Orson Welles had no idea what effect his radio
production of "War of the Worlds" would have upon the innocent public. Was he
REALLY surprised that people took it seriously? He was a smart guy. He knew
that there are people who see no discrepancy between illusion and reality,
people who aren't all there, who miss the credit sequence, who can't tell the
difference between a clearly staged radio production and the news,
those with no sense of humor or timing or sarcasm, that wide-eyed segment
of the population who totally believe whatever you tell them, even if it's
something as ridiculous as "The Martians have landed!"
Like Orson, I underestimated the public's sense
of reality. I had forgotten that when "Marcus Welby, M.D." was on TV, he got
more than 10,000 letters a week from people asking for medical advise, despite
the fact that he was quite clearly a fictional character in a weekly television
series. It just didn't occur to me that my simple idea for a column would
unintentionally explode into one of the biggest April Fool's Day gags of
all time. I couldn't have planned it. The random occurrences are piled too high.
If there's a lesson to be learned it's that you should never overestimate
the intelligence or underestimate the gullibility of people who pick up free
newspapers. Irony isn't ironic to someone who doesn't know what irony
is.
It happened in 1985 in the great City of Los
Angeles and there are plenty of others to blame. Please take your pick. Let's
start at the Bodhi Tree with the Bhagwan...
The Bodhi Tree is a multi-spiritual book store
on Melrose in the center of L.A. with incense constantly wafting, herbal tea
always brewing, and a very mellow clientele of incredibly well-dressed and
good-looking hipsters seeking enlightenment. I'm browsing, scanning the aisles
for nothing in particular, which is when you stumble upon the most surprising
things. How can you ever discover anything unless you wander? The Hollywood
hills with the top down on a sunny day, the sign says "Not a through street," I
check it out.
I am skimming from section to section, religion
to religion, belief system to belief system, from Asimov to Zoroaster, when
there in front of me is an entire wall of books by someone I've never heard of.
I consider myself pretty well read, and don't see how it's possible to have
overlooked an author who has literally written hundreds of books.
His name is Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, and he is
not famous yet. I have never heard of him, and neither does anyone else until
years later when he moves to Oregon, starts an ashram where free sex is
encouraged, a lot of people give him Rolls Royces, and he gets thrown out of the
country. He moves back to India where he realizes he can't encourage free sex
without creating the worlds first AIDS FREE ZONE. The only ashram with no entry
without a blood test. Then he changes his name to Osho, and finally to
http://www.osho.com. Interesting guy.
Though I'm sure he never knew it happened, there
is no doubt that the Bhagwan is equally responsible for the Biggest Inadvertent
April Fool of All Time.
If I had not sipped on a tepid Chamomile tea,
found a vacant bench, opened a random book by Rajneesh, turned to the first
page, and read the first paragraph, none of this would have happened. No one
would have been hurt, no one's lives would have been changed, no one's dreams
would have been shattered, and one person's fantasy most definitely would not
have come true. Here is what that first page said...
Beyond the boundary of this room is the unbound, open sky.
You have never seen it. I can talk with you about the sky, about the
freshness, about the sea, about all that is beyond this room, but you have not
seen it. You do not know about it. You just laugh; you think I am making it
up. You say, "It is all fantastic. You are a dreamer." I cannot convince you
to go outside because everything that I can talk about is meaningless to you.
Then I say, "The house is on fire!" This is meaningful to
you; this is something that you can understand. Now I do not have to give you
any explanations. I just run; you follow me.
The house is not on fire, but the moment you are outside
you don't have to ask me why I lied. The meaning is there; the sky is there.
Now you thank me.
Any lie will do. The lie was just a device; it was just a
device to bring you outside. It did not cause the outside to be there. Every
religion is based on a lie device.*
* Excerpt from Meditation: The Art of
Ecstasy, Chapter 1. ©Copyright Osho International Foundation and used with
kind permission.
I immediately dig the guy. Here he is, right off
the bat, admitting that he's lying to me just to get me outside, and all I
have to do to forgive him for the lie is to go outside. Makes sense to me.
I buy the book and go outside. I never read the book, but I do end up carrying
the opening around in my head for days, the lies, the outside, like a hit song
with a killer hook, whittling itself down to "Lies to Get You Out of the House."
It isn't just that I agree with the philosophy, it is a nifty line. I write it
down at the top of a piece of paper, sure that something will come.
It does. I conceive of it as an article for the
L.A. Weekly, where I am regularly getting printed. I stare at the blank sheet of
paper underneath the title LIES TO GET YOU OUT OF THE HOUSE. I write an intro,
then start filling in the obvious blanks.
"You missed Filmex," I type, "didn't see
Company, and discovered too late that Bruce Springsteen was sold out.
Instead you couched-out again last weekend, despite the dozens of glorious and
exciting things the L.A. Weekly told you there were to do. Well I'm sorry, but
there's no excuse for such laziness. This weekend, you're going to get off your
sofa and do something. What do we have to do, lie to you?"
I follow this short intro with a list of totally
fantastic things, like a "Free Nude Ballet in Echo Park!" or "Spago Pizza
at $2 a slice!" - things that can't possibly be accurate. They're all too good
to be true. Blatant lies to get you out of the house. It is an ultimate piece of
absurdist wish fulfillment with the sole purpose of getting couch potatoes off
their couches. Also it is precisely my sense of humor, and I think it might
amuse my editor, Jay Levin. It does.
The next idea is his, I swear to god. All I do
is show him the piece, he laughs, looks around at the calendar, and says "Let's
run it on April Fool's Day." See? Not my idea, though at the time I wished I had
thought of it.
Jay runs the article full page, with
illustrations. But it isn't called "Lies to Get You Out of the House," it is
called "A Weekend to Remember."
At this point we should pay tribute to the
ancient rule of journalism that writers never get to write their own headlines.
This part of the professional process bothered me at first but I quickly got
used to it. At Daily Variety, it was actually fun to sit back and see what sort
of Variety-speak headline they would come up with. (My article about John
Landis was called "No Crix' Darling, but Auds Love his Work")
When I first started out, I was surprised that
there were people on the payroll at magazines and newspapers who did nothing but
make up headlines, as if to say thank you very much Mr. Writer, we don't need
your suggestions, we have professionals for that sort of thing. The one sure way
to guarantee a different headline than the one you want is to use the one you
want as a title for your piece. What you have to do is hand it in with a
terrible title, bringing up your real title as a casual aside that you
considered but abandoned. Later, when the editor changes it anyway, there's
always the chance they'll remember what you said and be too lazy to come up with
anything better.
My first mistake is putting the word "Lies"
in my headline, thereby guaranteeing it won't be used, and it isn't.
There's no mention anywhere of the whole piece being lies. When the casual
reader of the Weekly scans the full page of things to do, there is no hint
that it's all a sham unless you read the bold reversed sub-heading "A guide
to special events in L.A. on or about April 1." Then you have to realize what
day April 1 is. Then you have to realize that if ONE of the items on the page is
a lie, the rest must be too. April Fools. You have to put it all
together.
A lot of people don't put it all together. A lot
of people don't read the bold reversed sub-heading. A lot of people skip right
to the item that interests them, without bothering to read anything else on the
page. A lot of people never realize the whole thing is bullshit because they
never read more than one item. A lot of people go out to do things that aren't
really happening. Things that will make them sound nuts if they ask about it and
can't find it.
"Excuse me, could you direct me to the free nude
ballet staring all the women from Fantasy Island?"
"Uh, sure bud, it's right this way."
Who would believe such nonsense? Readers, that's
who. Lots of them. What manner of trustworthy soul would see a notice in the
paper stating that the "Farmer's Market was having a free car swap," and believe
it? How gullible do you have to be to "Bring in your old beater and trade it for
any new model."
Dozens of cars, mainly from the 70s, but some
from the 60s and 50s, dented, crusty chuggers looking to swap, actually show up
at the Farmer's Market parking lot. Who can blame them for getting upset when it
isn't true? Who doesn't want a new car for their old one? That's what I
promised.
Of course if Pete hadn't met Alice, they
would have never stolen that convertible. Pete was the only guy she had ever met
who had a giant metal key ring with keys from hundreds of late model cars. He
told her that he was a dealer, and that dealers had master keys to all vehicles,
including tractors, just like hotel owners have master keys to the rooms in
their hotels. She believed the L.A. Weekly's ridiculous lie about the car swap,
so why wouldn't she believe his equally ridiculous lie. It makes perfect sense
that she would take the offer, the new Mustang he just happened to have the keys
to, in trade for her decrepit Beetle.
That's why this story isn't about me, it's about
them. The hundreds who trust, who don't know it's April Fool, who believe when
told that their dreams have come true. "Come paint the Beverly Center!" Sure
bud, where are my spray cans?
There are two things Hermes can do faster
than anyone else: run and paint. It is a perfect combo for a graffiti artist.
Like Speedy Gonzalez, he can magically appear in the most unlikely places, spray
a majestically swirling dervish of paint across the wall, and disappear in a
puff of smoke. His Holy Grail is the Beverly Center, which he considers to be a
blight upon the basin. He misses the pony rides. But what a canvas. He can
picture it now.
He reads that "For one weekend only, there
will be a scaffolding across the Beverly Center." The whole vast display of ugly
brown nothingness is being given over to the artistic community. "All artists
are invited to participate, paint provided." He buys it hook, line, and sinker.
He drives past the building on Friday night and dreams. Who can blame him for
making his dream come true the next day? Who can blame them for arresting him,
then letting him go, then arresting him again?
As for those jerks who showed up at the LA
County Art Museum, it serves them right. Why would anyone show up to see a
special new restored version of "A Star is Born," in which the director, Frank
Pierson, has removed all the close-ups of Barbara Streisand? Turns out she put
them there behind his back. "The new Fully Restored Director's cut of 'A Star is
Born' runs only 20 minutes long." But still you come. Is this not clearly a
joke? Do you simply fail to believe that anyone is crass enough to make a joke
at Barbara Streisand's expense?
I'm glad you take that walk down to the
tarpits. I'm glad you're never seen again.
I admit I'm startled that someone believes me
when I say it is "Punch a President" day at Disneyland. Do I mention that "all
viewers of Meet Mr. Lincoln are encouraged to wallop the national leader of
their choice?" You bet I do.
So it's not surprising that Disney security
throws Tito out of the park for knocking the animatronic Ronald Reagan's head
off. He does get to discover a secret ride, one reserved for those getting
thrown out. Mickey's personal escort service takes you directly to your car.
Tito has come with some friends who are driving a white something or other and
he can't find it. He enjoys his prolonged tour of the parking lot.
If I hadn't said there was going to be a
"Love-In in Griffith Park,"
would Gaylord and Nancy have met? Not
likely. Would they have had a baby and named it after me? Nope.
And what about those other trusty souls who show up in their love beads and
tie-dyes? Why do they keep coming back year after year? You think I planned it?
It was a joke. How will I ever live down the fact that there have been dozens of
love-ins in Griffith Park simply because I said so.
The "Gourmet Food Fair down the median strip of
Santa Monica Blvd. in Beverly Hills" is such a good idea that it actually
happens years later. But it doesn't happen on April Fool's Day of 1985 when Ezra
Augur drives all the way in from El Monte to sample his first Spago's goat
cheese and alligator sausage pizza for only $2 a slice.
He leaves with heartburn for another reason
entirely. Of course he doesn't have to wander into that church courtyard looking
for gourmet treats. You can't blame me for that. But a private wedding is the
closest thing to a food fair that poor Ezra spies, so of course he tries to join
the party. Wouldn't you? What happens next could certainly not be blamed upon me
or the Bhagwan.
When I say there is going to be "Free Health
Care at Cedar Sinai Hospital," and I mean this with no disrespect to anyone's
sense of humor, it is clearly just a lie to get you out of the house. When I say
"There will be no charge for anything from minor injuries to major surgery," it
is obviously a promise that can't be fulfilled. It's supposed to be funny.
But you don't laugh, you believe me. You show
up, like a legion to Lourdes, the poor, the destitute, those desperate souls
seeking health care through a free newspaper, those without calendars to see
what goddam holiday it is, those blind and crippled, those with no damned hope
in the world of getting free health care at the biggest, most expensive hospital
in the city.
You show up anyway, you cling to hope and assume
that I have given it to you. You give those doctors a challenge they'll never
forget. How do you deal with a dying patient looking for help that you are
perfectly capable of giving them but which you know they can't afford, when the
newspaper quite clearly says that all services are free today and they are
demanding their transplant? I don't blame the hospital for threatening to sue
the paper, I don't blame the paper for printing a retraction and an apology the
next week, and I'm sure you don't blame me for thinking that maybe some of those
doctors should have just helped those people anyway.
And I get my favorite phone call of all time.
I'm in the front office of the Weekly when the receptionist says, "It's
for you," and asks me to pick up the phone.
"Hello, is this Michael Dare?"
"Yes."
"This is the LAPD. Why are we getting all these
phone calls asking for free Italian shoes?"
Did I forget to mention that one of the items
stated that the LAPD had discovered an unclaimed cache of thousands of pairs of
Italian shoes and would be giving them away? I had forgotten all about it.
And so I take a deep breath and say the one
thing I haven't said all day, especially to a cop. I say the same thing those
doctors had to say to those patients. I say, "April Fool."
I get one personal dream fulfilled in exchange
for this notoriety. I get to lie on my back in Griffith Park at the love-in. I
get to smoke a joint with a bunch of hippies and pretend it is the 60s. Not a
care in the world. Clouds that look like things, awake to all options, alive to
the momentary depth of change that is always possible with just a little bit of
trust. Don't let it get away from you. This moment of beauty. A complete
relaxation.
I apologize if I hurt you and take no
responsibility if I helped you. It's not what I had in mind. I just wanted to
make you laugh. Instead, I turned some of you into laughing stocks. I don't
blame you for hating me.
Of course nobody really needed me to make their
dreams come true, anyway. They just needed permission, and I gave it. Hell, if
that's all it takes to make people's dreams come true, I hereby give permission
to everybody reading this to go out and do whatever you want. Just don't
hurt anybody or blame me. If anyone says "Hey, what the hell are you
doing," just print this out and tell them I said it was okay.
Oh, and happy April Fools.
