2001-10-16 - 12:07 a.m.
Now that I�ve read If Chins Could Kill I completely understand why so many of my geek friends think Bruce Campbell is God. He�s got matinee-idol good looks, but they�re slightly off-kilter, which allows normal ugly guys not to hate him. Plus he�s a big geek himself who answers his own e-mail. He and Sam Raimi became best buds back in junior high school in Detroit, started making movies just for the hell of it as soon as they could get their hands on an 8mm camera, then decided they wanted to make a living at it. Over the years he�s starred in, directed, co-produced, played errand-boy for, done last-minute walk-ons in, and "shemped" (what, you don�t know what shemping is? Read the book) in virtually all of Raimi�s film and TV projects. He let Raimi drench him in hundreds of gallons of fake blood and put him through endless physical and mental abuse during the filming of each of the Evil Dead movies and yet he enjoyed it a million times more than the abuse he was put through by Hollywood during his (very) brief flirtation with stardom. He loves hanging out with crew members, and while he likes actors well enough, he hates Actors.
I love this man.
Plus, his book has a great recipe for fake blood. I want to try it out for Halloween. Does anyone know where to find Karo syrup in San Diego?
My favorite part of the book, though, is the story of "The Classic"--a �73 Oldsmobile that Raimi has owned since forever and that he�s put in all of his movies. Over the years Bruce has developed an abiding hostility toward this car and has tried to arrange for its destruction on several occasions, prompting, after one attempt, a shouted-to-the-heavens vow from Sam of "YOU WILL NEVER KILL THE CLASSIC!" Trying to explain Sam�s attachment to this car, one of his and Bruce�s mutual friends offers a theory: "I think he got laid for the first time in the Classic, that�s why it�s so important to him."
I can relate to that. Not because I myself have held onto any artifacts from when I lost my virginity (I�m pretty sure even that hotel must have changed the sheets in that room by now), but because of the Skanky Sofa Story.
My college was, and still is, largely a commuter school, but there were a few out-of-towners who lived in the dorms or off-campus. One of my friends had grown up somewhere in Northern California, and after winter break one year he came back with a huge, orange, 1960s-vintage Danish modern-type sofa which he immediately installed in the living room of the house he shared with three other guys.
Words cannot capture the skankitude of this sofa, but I�ll try. To appreciate it fully you�d have to see it, smell it, spend long hours in its presence, and I can guarantee that doing so would have made something deep inside you wither and die. The wretched thing must have been ten feet long, and it wobbled because one of the legs had broken off and been nailed back on crooked. The foam cushions had been compressed over time into sheets of plastic so hard they could cut diamonds out of your ass and so thin you could see the outlines of the faux-wooden slats underneath them, half of which were missing. The once-bright orange had long since decayed into this revolting dark umber color which, alas, still wasn�t dark enough to conceal the obvious skid marks from where someone (presumably my friend�s dad) had sat in his underwear every night, night after night, for years and years and years. My friend�s parents both smoked (didn�t everyone in the �60s?) so the thing smelled like an ashtray--and thank the Lord for that small mercy. I shudder to think what it would have reeked of had it not been smothered in tobacco smoke for 20 years. His parents probably made him take it with him because the sheer volume of the toxins it spewed forth had burned a hole in the ozone layer over their house--or so went my theory at the time, anyway.
Going over to his house made me so glad I had my wheelchair to sit in. No way I was ever going to put my polyester-averse ass on that sofa.
His roommates didn�t like the thing, but they tolerated it. The place already looked like a hovel anyway, what with four college guys living there and all--the sofa just looked slightly more squalid than the rest of the house. Shit, it made the beer-can pyramids and tits-of-the-month calendars look positively tasteful. And when I and our other friends came over for parties and whatnot we quickly got too blotto to care about the decor.
One such night, we were all gathered in the living room playing Quarters. (Or maybe it was Trivial Pursuit, or maybe both--I forget.) My friend, the owner of the sofa, became slobberingly sentimental as was his usual wont when drunk. This time, though, instead of telling us all how much he loved us and promising that we would all stay friends forever no matter what happened and so on and so on, he began waxing lyrical about his love for--the butt-ugly orange sofa. "You all wanna know why I love this couch, you guys?" he slurred. "I lost my MOTHERFUCKING CHERRY on this couch, that�s why!"
Imagine the speed with which a half-dozen college kids would leap up from a sofa after hearing that. Now, double it.
I think that was the last straw for his roommates, because the sofa was banished to a back bedroom shortly after that. But my friend never got rid of it for as long as he was living there--I haven�t seen him in years, but for all I know he still has it. I hope his wife finally made him steam-clean it, at least. Assuming he�s married.
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