Dan Moldea, �Dark Victory: Ronald Reagan, MCA, and the Mob�
Jello Biafra�s first spoken work album, �No More Cocoons,� mentions this book on the track, �What Reagan Didn�t Know.� Being a young, impressionable and angry 17 year-old punk rocker, I�ve always kept an eye out for it. About four years ago, it came into the store, and I nearly squealed with delight, putting it on my hold shelf.
The next morning, my boss called me at home and said somebody was in the store asking for a copy, and could he have mine, promising that I could have the next copy that came in. I do not know if the person asking was an angry 17 year-old punk rocker, or at least the remnants of one. In either case, I said okay.
It�s taken this long for it to come in again.
For those of you who have never been a 17 year-old angry punk rocker, let me transcribe what Biafra says:
�Now, if he really didn�t know about all his elves playing Rambo that are still getting away with murder, check this out: there�s a book out [...] where it is written in the 1950s, MCA made this little deal with the screen actors guild, that�s the actor�s union, an exclusive, what they called a blanket waiver, that would make MCA billions of dollars. It was rigged so only MCA could act as agent to its own stars. MCA alone would be somehow exempt from a coming actors strike. And at that time, the president of the Screen Actors Guild was guess who? Ronald Reagan.
�His reward from MCA as his career began to peter out was to be named host of the long running G.E. Television Theater, then later on, MCA gave him 25 percent of the whole program, and overnight he was on his way to being a multi-millionaire. Then, in 1962, a grand jury called in Ronald McReagan, wanted to have a few words with Ronald McReagan. Asked him if these deals he made, weren�t they a little � corrupt? And Reagan � professional actor � suddenly acted confused! And replied, almost as if on cue, way back in �62, that he, the president of the Screen Actor�s Guild, didn�t know what was going on. Sound familiar?�
See, it�s an intriguing theory. But now that I�ve actually read the book, I think Biafra only read the introduction, as the author pretty much leaves Reagan out of the loop, and now I�m actually more inclined to believe that Reagan�s cabinet left him out of their dirty dealings as well.
In fact, to title the book as it is, is fairly deceptive. Really, it ought to be called, �MCA and the Mob, and Oh, There�s a Little Bit About Reagan As Well.�
That�s not to say that it�s a bad book, in fact it�s fairly interesting. But titled as it is, and my remembrances of being an angry 17 year-old punk rocker, I nearly fell into whining mode � �When are you gonna talk about Reagan?� When he finally does come into the picture, his dealings are so miniscule, that you can�t feel like he wasn�t just along for the ride.
Kinda like his entire presidency.
Really though, instead of this being an expose of the Reagan years, this is just another study of how some people have too much fucking money, and I already knew that. But in case I needed further proof, take a guess where I was for the State of the Union address last month.
Go on, guess.
Did you guess I drinking champagne in some billionaire�s penthouse apartment in Nob Hill?
No?
You�re not very good at this guessing thing are you?
I�m sure you�ve seen those old cartoons showing the evil capitalist strutting about in his thousand-dollar smoking jacket, even though he�s still wearing a full suit and tie ensemble underneath. These pictures show him reclining on some huge sofa, trophy wife at least forty years his junior at his side with his feet in slippers, resting on a huge fur rug of some undetermined animal.
Those cartoons were not biting satire � they are all true. I have now seen it. Imagine that the penthouse wasn�t big enough, so he bought two of them and knocked down the wall so he would have a 360-degree view of the city. There were Waterford crystal sculptures as big as my head on the bookcase opposite the enormous wet bar filled with fine china. Next to the bar was a plaque from Willie Brown denoting that from that moment forward one day was designated in the city of San Francisco as �His Day.�
I�m curious in what that entails. If I said his name in a store on that day, do I get a discount? Or does he just get to run all the red lights and park wherever he likes?
But I guess I should explain. Has anybody every told you something that seemed a little too far-fetched to be believed, but you couldn�t figure out why they would say it if it weren�t true? I dated a girl a while back that was like that. So when she told me her grandfather was richer than God and to atone for it helped created the state of Israel, I was skeptical. I guess I need to apologize for that now.
She was in town because he was having his 90th birthday celebration, which entailed renting four floors at the Fairmont in San Francisco for a week and inviting everybody important except me � I guess the Prime Minister of Japan took my seat. To make up for the indiscretion, this former girlfriend of mine invited me up for free drinks at the Tonga Room, which has some of the most ridiculous glassware known to man. And by invited, it meant all the drinks were on his tab.
Of course I was going to go. AND, I was going to steal stuff.
But when I arrived that evening and called her from the hotel lobby (after nearly being turned away by the security), I was informed that he had invited her to dinner. Since it was her last night in town, she had to go. She asked if I would mind accompanying her. An hour and a half train ride for a half-hour of catching up seemed a little silly, so I agreed.
�What color is your hair these days?� she asked over the phone.
�Bleached white, still have the hair in the eyes with the pseudo mohawk, severe brown patches.�
�Oh, dear. What are you wearing?�
�Trench coat, newly cleaned. But underneath it is white T-shirt that says �Crime Pays when Pigs Die.�
�Hoo boy...�
�It�s a big jacket.�
�Hoo boy.�
After two drinks served in something shaped like Aladdin�s magic lamp, we had to met her grandfather. Whisked through security into a private elevator that shot straight to the top floor, we walked into a sea of white. I tentatively stepped through the hall, my black boots sinking into thick brilliant white plush carpeting, trying not to catch the sleeve of my jacket on the enormous bronze statue in the middle of the room. I hear voices inviting us in, but can�t make out where they were coming from. My old girlfriend grabs my arm and leads me through the rooms, leaning toward me.
�I know how you are Dean,� she whispers to me as we walk, �and I love you for it, but remember if you mouth off, I�ll be sleeping on your couch.�
Introductions were made. As he�s ninety years old, he can�t see or hear too well, I soon realize the role of the trophy wife is to lean in and interpret when he�s forced to deal with people on a one-on-one basis, since as soon as I introduce myself she repeats my name for him.
�Nice to meet you, Dean,� he says, shaking my hand. �Take off your coat and have a seat.� He motions to my ex-girlfriend. �Jill, pull out two chairs.�
I should mention that my ex-girlfriend�s name is not Jill. When you�re that rich, people will answer to whatever you call them, I suppose.
I should also mention that I kept my coat on.
The television is on and Bush is just making his entrance. The Billionaire and his Trophy lean back to watch the speech. We�re obviously not going anywhere. Bush starts immediately with some hyperbole and fascistic appeal to patriotism. My hands are gripping the armrests of my chair.
Of course these two people, being obscenely wealthy, love Bush, as he makes sure they don�t have to pay any taxes, and not just when it�s his honorary day. Trophy Wife must have seen something in my face, as she quickly and in hushed tones tells us to get ourselves some champagne and have a look at the city. �Jill� whisks me away quickly, feeding me more booze and taking me onto the balcony.
�I�m impressed,� she tells me as we close the sliding glass door. �Not one comment. I did think death lasers were going shoot out of your eyes, but other than that, you�re very composed. You must be getting complacent in your old age.�
�That sounds like a challenge,� I said.
�No, no, it most definitely is not. But you�re almost home free. How much longer can Bush lie?�
�At least another year, and that�s assuming he doesn�t get reelected.�
Sometimes I hate how prophetic I can be.
The speech ends, and of course, they�re not interested in hearing the democratic response. We head to a small bistro around the corner for dinner. The restaurant is small and noisy, which makes the Trophy Wife�s job easier. �Jill� gave me the run-down on the Trophy�s situation before we went inside. It seems that she had to sign a contract that stipulates that she gets nothing from him when he dies, and can not be written into his will. But, she gets to keep any and everything he gives to her while he is alive.
In other words, it�s in her best interest to be nice to him and to keep him alive as long as possible. She scans the menu and asks the waiter about all the salt and calorie count in everything, and then orders soup.
There�s something I love about seeing this guy, whose watch costs more than everything I collectively own, eating soup, bread, and water.
�Those were some good plans and policies Bush said he was going to start,� the guy says to us as a group.
�I wasn�t exactly sure how he intended to fund those points,� I responded. �Jill� kicked me underneath the chair. He turned to the Trophy.
�What did he say?� he asked.
�He said the food is very nice.�
Damn, she�s good.
They went back to their penthouse and �Jill� and I returned to the Tonga room on his tab. I slipped the ugliest glass I�ve ever seen into my inside jacket pocket after I finished my drink.
An hour later, I was back at the train station, reading about the corruption and dirty deals of the filthy rich. I finished the book just before it was time to board, and noticed there was an index of all the characters mentioned. I looked for my dinner companion�s name.
This would have been such a better story if it had been there.
