The Year of Heavy Stuff Falling on Us
One blow to the head after another
2005: Believe it or not, this was the first year I've managed to drop a refrigerator on my head. (Although there was—shudder—the Salad Shooter incident of 1998.) Happened just a couple of days ago, the refrigerator thing. Here we can quote Mayor Oscar Goodman from another context—who knows which one; it suited so many circumstances this year—"I hope it's not as bad as it sounds." And it wasn't. I'm OK; it was a mini-fridge, thankfully empty, and I learned not to carry it on my shoulder if I'm going to trip on the stairs.
But at first, as I sat on the steps, dizzy, bleeding from my scalp and vaguely worried about the chance of brain damage, I realized something: This is precisely how I felt during Bush's inauguration in January. And the Nevada Legislature in February-May. About the Michael Jackson verdict, whenever that was. About New Orleans and FEMA and our scorching summer temps, Terry Schaivo and Lance Malone. Valerie Plame and "Bob Beers for Governor." Intelligent design. Steroids in baseball. Harriet Miers. Billy Walters. Tom DeLay. More New York Times screwups. Pat Robertson calling down God's wrath like an airstrike. Rising gas prices. Soaring home prices. Flat education funding. Each hit like a falling appliance, just 2005's little way of saying it's not as bad as it sounds—buddy, it's worse. "Are you proud of me," FEMA Director Michael Brown e-mailed a friend while New Orleans drowned, discussing—what else?—a shirt he'd picked up at Nordstrom. "I am a fashion god." 2005, there's your nutshell.
Brown was only one of the endless ways this year found to mock the idea that design could be intelligent. How dumb do you have to be to testify that you're not using steroids when you're actually using steroids? Only Rafael Palmeiro's IQ test knows for sure. Talking about the possibility of siting the Arthur C. Clarke Center for Imagination and Opportunity at UNLV," Clarke, a sci-fi visionary, told the R-J, "We were very attracted to the central role that 'imagination' plays in the Las Vegas community." Meanwhile, Bob Beers decided to run for governor on a platform that refused to imagine any better version of Nevada than a state where tax bills are paid in pennies and everyone fends for themselves. And the school system continued its grim slide, unchecked by any real legislative urgency to shore it up. "We're in a cheap state, which doesn't want to make the tough decisions," said school superintendent Carlos Garcia just before bugging out for a better-paying private-sector job. Hey, you don't have to drop a fridge on that guy to make a point.
Pop quiz: This year, who said, "I have political capital, and I intend to spend it"? A.) Kenny Guinn, before pissing away $300 million on specious rebates designed to appease taxpayers and Bob Beers instead of address state problems; B.) President Bush, back before the troop deaths in Iraq passed 2,000; C.) Oscar Goodman, before 1.) shooting a Playboy photo spread; 2.) advocating the de-thumbing of graffitists; or 3.) endorsing gin to fourth-graders? Answer: Bush said it, but you know they all thought it.
Added up, it was enough to make you want to slap someone, much the way Gallagher did an audience member during a show in Laughlin not long ago, for which he was sued. "It got a laugh," the onetime comedian and fashion god said in his defense, "and that's what this is about."
And there were a few things to laugh about, particularly if you prefer your laughter in the form of rueful bemusement. Example: the comic spectacle of cabbies indignant at the very idea that they shouldn't be allowed to collect illegal kickbacks—and Gov. Guinn knuckling under to them (vetoing an anti-kickback bill). Or the multiple debates about liquor sales in the vicinity of schools and churches, which prompted freshman City Councilwoman Lois Tarkanian to buck the general drift of 2005: "I think we should be maintaining our standards, not lowering them."
Or take Strip producer Norbert Aleman, who, during the Katrina devastation, was moved to issue a press release confirming his own loss: The storm had ruined his vacation home. But with the pluck you'd expect of the man behind Crazy Girls, he focused on the upside. "I'm happy to be alive," he said. He was in Mexico when the hurricane hit, but still, close call.
When the Del Mar Motel—an alleged hotbed of prostitution—was shut down this year, owner Ed Wrenn was able to put a pleasant face on it by sharing credit among his staff. "They're nice people, very cooperative," he said, "and I guess they got carried away with their cooperativeness." I hereby nominate Ed Wrenn as next FEMA chief, as long as he promises to shop at Nordstrom.
For every silver lining it offered, 2005 conducted an experiment in dark-cloud formation. Try this at home. Step 1: Let Goodman float the idea of a Downtown medical center run by the University of Pittsburgh, a much-admired hospital operator. Step 2: Measure the time it takes local doctors to cry foul and form border posses against Pittsburghian incursions. Warning: You'll need an atomic clock—don't tell these guys it's not as bad as it sounds. "We're very sensitive," said one local medico.
Well, in a year like this, aren't we all? I mean, I've got a mini-fridge full of chilled Diet Coke beside me, and I only had to risk a crushed skull for the convenience. Any other year, I'd say that's too high a price, but in 2005, I guess I'm just happy to be alive.