The Weekly Screed (#529)

“… Khrushchev’s due at Idlewild…”
by David Benjamin

BROOKLYN — “bieberized,” adj. 1 to be aware, unintentionally, of more pop culture crap than any self-respecting adult would admit to knowing…”

My first sighting of Justin Bieber was on Japanese television, in an interview conducted by one of Asahi’s TV’s infinite supply of chirping cuties. I realized the kid was probably a star, but I avoided learning both its name and gender. I hoped that that accidental glimpse would end my acquaintance. But I knew better.

I admitted defeat during the Super Bowl. When Bieber appeared in a Best Buy ad, I already knew him by name. Unlike one of the wrinkled rock stars in the same ad, I knew he was male (although I still don’t get the kid’s Donald Trump hairdo).

But never mind. Too late! I was bieberized.

Not that it matters, but “the Bieb” (where are you, Jerry Mathers?) is the latest in a long line of teen idols who look or sound (or both) like girls. Involuntarily, my hippocampus scrolled randomly back through Leo DiCaprio, Shaun Cassidy, Michael Jackson, Brandon DeWilde, Bobby Rydell, Ricky Nelson, Frankie Lymon, Bobby Vee, Ronnie Dee, Sandra Dee — wait, wait! I think Sandra Dee actually was a girl.

Probably the greatest of all LLAG (looks like a girl) pop idols was Wayne Newton. OK, who else remembers that Newton debuted on “The Jackie Gleason Show”?

Yeah, well, I do.

Probably the least bieberized people in my life were my grandparents, Annie and Swede. They’d given up going to the movies long before I was born; had no idea who either Gidget or James Bond were. Nonetheless, they were the ones who ruined me. They provided my portal — a 24-inch 1954 black-and-white Motorola TV — to the vast wasteland of dime-store celebrity and overnight fame.

Annie and Swede watched the tube with Lutheran moderation, tuning in Lawrence Welk, Jack Webb, Garry Moore, Ed Sullivan, Mitch Miller, even Paladin and Gil Favor. But they missed so much, Annie darning socks, Swede dozing off before the 10 o’clock news. While they ignored, I watched, learned, absorbed, understood, laughed at, wept over, believed in, and became one with every ghost that haunted the Motorola — from Ed “Kooky” Byrnes and Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., Martin Milner and George Maharis, Troy Donahue and Van Williams to Gardner McKay, Gale Storm, Eve Arden, Spring Byington, Fess Parker, Buddy Ebsen, Donna Douglas and Rod Serling. (A lifetime supply of Ipana to anyone who can match all of the above to their TV shows!)

I can trace, without looking anything up, the offspring of “The Danny Thomas Show” through “Andy Griffith” and “Gomer Pyle,” “Lost in Space,” “That Girl,” “Happy Days,” and “Laverne and Shirley” — all the way to “Friends.” (While, a generation later, everyone saw Gilligan, I kept flashing back to Maynard G. Krebs!)

It wasn’t just TV shows that rotted my mind. Long after Annie and Swede hit the sheets, I was staying up past Steve Allen for the late movie. I could tell every Taylor (Robert, Rod, Liz) from the others. I knew all my current stars, Heston, Newman, Monroe, Lollobrigida, and the bygones, too — Colman, Garson, Wilde, Rains, Lugosi, Chaney. The first two women I ever loved were Maureen O’Sullivan and Doris Day.

Worst of all, I discovered pleasure in knowing not just the big names but the bit players, character mugs and one-shot starlets. Was I the only fan in the world of Elisha Cook, Jr., Lyle Bettger, Celeste Holm and Dahlia Lavi?

In my defense, I practiced this trivia fixation in other realms— like music. While I have big-name records by Brubeck, Nat Cole, the Beatles, Taj Mahal. I also collect Nat’s brother Freddy and, for years, I’ve worshipped Blossom Dearie and Willie Pajeaud.

Of course, also, I hoard defunct books by forgotten authors — like Holling Clancy Holling and Tucker Coe! I have every dark yarn ever spun by B. Traven and Charles Williams. I own all the Homer Evans mysteries of Elliot Paul. And don’t even ask me about Ilya Ilf and Yevgeny Petrov!
Sports? OK. Who else remembers Walt “No Neck” Williams, Henry Finkel and Tommy Joe Crutcher? And who they played for?

Occasionally, I struggle against the inexorable synapse-clogging tide of bieberbilge, but now, it’s everywhere — not just TV, movies and radio. It’s in the phone, on the Mac, inside the Web, and throbbing from giant screens mounted on skyscrapers. And look where we are now — February! What’s next? Sweet Jesus, it’s the Oscars!

With this unavoidable pop-culture High Mass, I’m flooded with a vast new roster of silverplate celebrities whom I’ve never heard of, but who will fasten to my brain like sequined tapeworms. Who the hell are Jesse Eisenberg, Mark Ruffalo, Michelle Williams, Jacki Weaver and Darren Aronofsky? It doesn’t matter. I’m going to know ALL of them by the end of that long, mawkish festival of gilded roses and transient glory. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Shlock is going to blitz my consciousness, and I’m going to have to make room between my ears.

Maybe Oscar nominees Jennifer Lawrence and Hailee Steinfeld (whoever they are) will finally supplant, in my memory, the lyrics to the entire C&H Sugar jingle (which I know by heart). Or both of the Oscar Mayer weiner songs (which I hear, sometimes, in my sleep). I would be grateful, at least, to forget all those beer commercials…

“I’m from Milwaukee
And I oughta know!
It’s draft-brewed Blatz beer
Wherever you go…”

Eh… won’t happen. Bieberdreck just keeps building up, like mildew in grout. The only way to avoid more of it seeping in is maybe find a monastery, in Timbuktu.

How badly off am I? Well, just to give you an idea, I can sing, verbatim, every verse, the themes of “Mr. Ed,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” and “Car 54, Where Are You?” (you know! Joe E. Ross — with Fred Gwynne as Francis Muldoon).

“There’s a holdup in the Bronx, Brooklyn’s broken out in fights.
“There’s a traffic jam in Harlem that’s backed up to Jackson Heights…”