The Trials of Philip Michaels

In Defense of Steve Guttenberg

If you honestly believe that nobody has ever taken Steve Guttenberg seriously as an actor than I would have to conclude that you are either an ignoramus or that you have never seen "Don't Tell Her It's Me."

In that motion picture, Mr. Guttenberg plays a fat cartoonist battling lymphoma who tries to make a play for Jami Gertz. Disgusted by his bloated, cancer-ridden body, Gertz rebuffs his advances. This spurs Mr. Guttenberg to begin a rigorous program of self-improvement. His cancer in remission and assisted by his meddling sister (Shelley Long), he assumes the disguise of an Australian biker named Lobo to woo Ms. Gertz and steal her away from her boyfried, a lunkish fellow named Trout played by Kyle MacLachlan. It is a testament to Mr. Gutttenberg's charm and natural charisma that he is able to win Ms. Gertz's heart, even after she is initially hurt by his thoughtless ruse, all the while dealing Trout his just comeuppance.

Anyone who sees the humanity Guttenberg brings to his character -- whether it be a fat cartoonist at death's door or a mullet-sporting biker named Lobo -- knows that this is an actor to be reckoned with. You feel his hopes. You share his dreams. And once you hear the tender love theme from "Don't Tell Her It's Me" -- apparently recorded by the Jefferson Starship tribute band Aaron Burr TIE Fighter -- and you look into Guttenberg's expansive eyes as he pleads for Gertz's love in a terrible Australian accent... well, if you're not wiping away a tear, you're a miserable bastard whose company is a burden to your friends and loved ones.

Given International Tensions, Perhaps We Should Say That Andre's Is a "Freedom" Restaurant

Dave Burkhart -- the most prolific contributor to TeeVee in the last 48 hours -- has a piece up on Infinite Monkeys about a recent trip to Las Vegas where he and his fiancee dined at the French restaurant, Andre's, in the fabulous Monte Carlo Hotel & Casino. Curiously enough, my wife and I also took a recent trip to Las Vegas in which we dined at the French restaurant, Andre's, in the fabulous Monte Carlo Hotel & Casino.

Like Dave, I had the duck (excellent!). Unlike Dave, who chatted up the sommelier on the merits of various Burgundys, I ordered a half bottle of the David Bruce Pinot Noir, which makes the sommelier less inclined to chat with you. We did not have the souffle -- instead, we kept with tradition and had a creme brulee for desert. It was quite yummy -- in fact, in the pantheon of creme brulees, the one at Andre's ranks right up there with the one they make at the Carmel Chophouse in Carmel-by-the-sea. Unlike David's experience, our waiter was not a chump. In short, if you ever find yourself in Vegas, I highly recommend a meal at Andre's, even though we shall be paying off our recent dinner there until mid-2008.

I mention all this to share this little side annecdote: while my wife and I were eating, an old man came into the dining room, with a markedly younger escort hanging off his arm. The old fellow wore a track suit -- his better half was wearing jeans (me and the missus and most of the other diners were wearing our finery). The old man -- who was directly in my line of vision -- requested a pad of paper from the waiter and spent most of the meal writing down what I can only assume to be substantial numerical figures because every so often he would show them to his young companion, and she would squeal with delight and kiss him. When their food arrived, he kept scrawling down numbers while she fed him.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Dave has aged dramatically in recent years.

Interestingly, This Theory Also Explains Al Sharpton's Candidacy

So I was back in San Francisco on business a few weeks ago and headed to the Montgomery Street BART station to catch a train to take me away from the grime and madness of The City to the relatively more palatable grime and madness of the East Bay. Which is when I spotted them -- a couple of young men standing in front of the train station staircase. They were waving sings and carrying on and generally making a nuisance of themselves by trying to stand in front of rapidly fleeing passersby. They also were singing -- at the top of their lungs and nowhere within a five-block radius of the right key -- "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." And, in the evening twilight, it wasn't until I got within a few feet that I could make out exactly what exactly their signs said.

"LaRouche for President."

Good God, I thought -- Lyndon LaRouche is running for president again? Did I oversleep this morning and wake up back in 1988? Are the Bangles popular again? Is The Cosby Show still setting those Nielsen ratings afire?

You can understand my confusion. After all these years, I figured that Lyndon LaRouche was (a) dead; (b) stripped of his franchise and deported; or (c) legally insane and therefore ineligible for the White House. Well, as it turns out, LaRouche is alive and well and still babbling about some crazy thing or another. According to his campaign Web site, LaRouche is on the ballot in 11 states -- that's over one-fifth of the country, pal! -- and the District of Columbia, so if he has been deported, someone forgot to tell the Rhode Island Secretary of State. And after carefully scouring Article II, the Constitution doesn't really forbid someone who's certifiably insane from running this country.

So that's more good news for you, Governor Dean!

Still, I couldn't help but feel that this was all some sort of put-on. I mean, let's say you're a fringe presidential candidate -- so below the radar you're making Dennis Kucinich look like an unstoppable juggernaut. Is it really in your best interest, then, to have, as your point men in your uphill battle for mainstream recognition, a couple of punks who think they're doing you a favor by menacing commuters and slaughtering the lyrics of Julia Ward Howe? My friends, it is not. You'd be better off spouting crazy conspiracy theories and getting yourself thrown in jail for tax evasion, and that strategy hasn't exactly helped LaRouche make any headway in his last seven presidential campaigns.

So I've decided the whole ugly incident was a prank -- probably a hidden-camera stunt for C-SPAN's version of Punk'd, with Brian Lamb leaping out from behind a newsrack to taunt gullible pedestrians taken in by this sham.

Look for the episode to air some time after Booknotes takes an in-depth look at Truly Tasteless Jokes Three.