Dirty Rodman Scoundrel



By Tony Kornheiser



Sunday, June 2 1996; Page F01

The Washington Post 



Periodically, I will scan the bestseller list to see if my book

has popped into the Top 10. Hey, it is possible. Even

lousy books like mine have been known to suddenly "take

off" despite the fact that they have been panned by every

book reviewer in America, even dippy outfits like Kirkus

Reviews, which would have found something nice to say

about "Mein Kampf," but called my book "a great big

stinking sac of rhinoceros pus," or something like that. But

I am not bitter.



Anyway, I see that I have not made it onto the Big List

yet. The Big List is still dominated by deep philosophical

works such as "Men Are From Mars and Women Are

From Venus, So Bite Me, Okay?" But I am not bitter.



The big news in publishing, however, is that the No.

1-selling book in America this week is "Bad As I Wanna

Be," by the noted man of letters Mister Dennis Rodman of

the Chicago Bulls.



How bad does Mister Rodman wanna be? Apparently, he

wans ta be the worst writer on Earth.



Have you seen this book? 



Rodman is on the cover with his flame-broiled orange hair

and his body pierced in so many places that when he

drinks a liter of water he is his own sprinkler system. He is

stark naked except for a strategically placed basketball.

He is sitting on a huge motorcycle. His body is full of

tattoos, the most prominent of which, on his left triceps,

appears to be of a toilet seat. 



But you cannot, ha ha ha, judge a book by its cover. No,

to understand the complexity of Mister Rodman's oeuvre,

it is necessary to turn to any random page, where you

learn that the book's main feature is that every so often a

few provocative words will suddenly BE PRINTED IN

GIGANTIC SWIRLING TYPE. It is as though Mr.

Rodman believes the average reader has the attention

span of, you know, to use a ridiculous example, some

6-foot-8 jock whose specialty in life is garnering rebounds

by smashing people in the face with his elbows. 



But the amazing thing is how manipulative and misleading

these giant-type phrases are. Here is a quote from Page

167: "I'm not gay. I would tell you if I was. If I go to a gay

bar that does not mean I want ANOTHER MAN TO

PUT HIS TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT. No, it

means I want to be a whole individual." 



Get the concept? 



Hey, I can do that: 



"So the other day I went to the store to get some milk and

eggs, and all of a sudden I had a GUN IN MY LAP. It

was my son's toy gun that he'd left in my car the night

before, AND I HAD THE URGE TO PUT THE GUN

TO MY HEAD AND PULL THE TRIGGER, BRO,

realizing nothing would happen. All the people who might

want to see MY BRAINS SPLATTERED ALL OVER

THE FRONT SEAT would have to wait for another day.

Perhaps when I needed orange juice."



And then maybe I, too, will have the No. 1-selling book in

the land. But I am not bitter.



Prior to his phenomenal literary success, Rodman's

previous claim to fame was HE HAD SEX WITH THAT

SLUT MADONNA, a best-selling author herself. Wow.

It's as if Dorothy Parker had an affair with James Thurber

-- except for the small detail that they had brains.



If you're David Halberstam or Tom Wolfe, if you're

anybody who writes ACTUAL NONFICTION BOOKS

- books where the main disclosure about Madonna (Page

197) isn't "SHE WASN'T AN ACROBAT BUT SHE

WASN'T A DEAD FISH, EITHER," and the essential

philosophical statement isn't "IF I WANT TO WEAR A

DRESS, I'LL WEAR A DRESS" (Page 167) -- if you

are Halberstam or Wolfe when you check the bestseller

list and see "Bad As I Wanna Be," you have to want to

remove your eyes with a melon ball scooper. 



As Dennis Rodman has found out, the quickest way up in

literature is to bounce on the pogo stick of celebrity. A

good way to do that is to paint your hair orange. But the

best way to do that is to get your own sitcom. In the past

year Fran Drescher, Ellen DeGeneres, Paul Reiser, Brett

Butler and Tim Allen have all had bestsellers -- and if they

actually wrote them, I'm Jerry Mahoney. (We know

Rodman didn't write his book; most people don't think he

read it.) Isn't it strange how that works out: YOU STICK

YOUR HAND IN A WALL SOCKET and grunt like a

woodchuck on television - ALL OF A SUDDEN

YOU'RE ERNEST HEMINGWAY! How come it

doesn't work the other way? How come nobody ever

asked James M. Schlesinger Jr. to star in "The Nanny"?



You don't have to be a celebrity to write a bestseller. You

could write a diet book. (Though it helps to be a celebrity

and write a diet book, like Joan Lunden, WHO HAS

STAYED ON TV FOR MORE THAN A DECADE

WITH NO DISCERNIBLE TALENT. You could also

write a cartoon book and get on the bestseller list, like the

one about Dilbert, the office dweeb who never gets any,

or the "Waldo's in Gondwanaland" books, which aren't

books at all, but drawings -- which is like giving the

PULITZER PRIZE FOR LITERATURE TO TINKY

"DAKOTA" WEISBLAT. 



But all things considered, celebrity is the way to go.

Personally, I'm waiting for the CHARLIE SHEEN

TELL-ALL BOOK. Sheen is my idea of what a celebrity

should be in the '90s -- a giant, gaping keister in human

clothing. 



You remember that he came into prominence with the

revelation that he had spent more than $53,000 on HEIDI

FLEISS'S PROSTITUTES in a two-year period. That

was followed shortly by the news that Charlie boy was

getting married! "She's an angel sent from Heaven to take

me through the rest of my journey," Charlie said,

revoltingly.



The journey lasted five months. "You buy a car, it breaks

down, what are you gonna do?" that crazy sentimentalist

Charlie said in announcing his divorce. 



His sudden ex-wife claimed she was shocked,

SHOCKED TO FIND OUT CHARLIE PAID FOR

ALL THOSE HOOKERS! She said she didn't know.

Huh? Everybody knew. MY DOG KNEW. 



(The joke about the marriage was that it got off to a

terrible start after the first night of the honeymoon, when

Charlie asked his wife if he could start a tab.)



From there Charlie took up baseball. Not content with

paying for sex, he wanted to pay for a major league home

run. So one day HE SPENT $5,000 TO BUY ALL THE

SEATS BEHIND THE LEFT FIELD FENCE IN

ANAHEIM STADIUM so he could get a home run ball.

"I didn't want to crawl over the paying public, " Charlie

said. "I wanted to avoid the violence." I'm pleased to say

the game that night between the Angels and Tigers was

the only game all year in which there were no homers hit,

and Charlie was out five large -- about the same as two

Heidi-ho's would have cost.



This past week Charlie resurfaced, like a fish head,

claiming HE IS BORN AGAIN! He said his faith was "so

far beyond me. It's so much more powerful than anything I

can control. I HAVE TO SURRENDER." 



Sounds like a title to me. 



© Copyright 1996 The Washington Post Company