Monday, June 20, 2011

All Good Things (Hackman You Bastard- The Conclusion)

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Read Part 3!

Read Part 2!

Read Part 1!


And with one voice . . .

After I told everyone about my revelation the word spread quickly. Perhaps it was the beer, perhaps it was the stress brought on by our Senior Papers coming due, or perhaps it was just our natural aversion towards a bastard like Hackman. Whatever the reason, within a few days we had a regular group of people who would make the journey to our balcony and yell at Gene Hackman's house, nestled in the mountains like a festering middle finger in the middle of our dreams.

It caught on. There were times when we would have dozens of people involved. The act of yelling at him brought on a catharsis, a sense of inner peace not unlike the end of the first Superman movie. But instead of having to fly against the rotation of the earth and turn back time, we just needed to drink a few beers and scream about how ridiculous the plot of Enemy of the State was. Bad grades on your latest paper? Fuck you, Gene Hackman. Girlfriend broke up with you? Fuck you, Gene Hackman. Can't win a round of Goldeneye? Gene Hackman, you son of a bitch.

When the balcony wasn't enough, we started climbing the bell tower and screaming from the top. The cries of "Fuck you, Gene Hackman, you bastard!" Could be heard throughout the campus and up into the mountains beyond.

Were there complaints? Oh, indeed. Fellow dorm dwellers got pretty upset at times, until we invited them up to yell and then they saw the light. Occasionally the police were called, and one time I had to meet with the Dean in regards to a harassment complaint from Mr. Hackman himself. That bastard.

But we were on a mission from God. Or Beer. And we had a lot of time on our hands, since 2nd semester senior year all classes are cancelled except for Art. Some people spent that precious time working on their papers, some people made plans for their future, and some people lost themselves to sordid debauchery.

I used my time to yell at Gene Hackman.

But nothing lasts forever.

It came to a head one day in late Spring. I was on the balcony, yelling, when all of the sudden, from the other side of the arroyo, I heard a voice emanating from the house.

"Screw you, Lippart."

I responded in my usual quick witted fashion.

"What?"

The voice mocked me as it flew across the dessicated landscape.

"You heard me the first time. Screw you, you goddamned pussy. You don't have the balls to say that to my face."

Maybe it was the rage, maybe it was the heat of the morning sun, or maybe it was the 5 beers I had consumed. Looking back, I am not sure. All I knew then was that now was the time. It had finally happened. He was answering my call. I grabbed my barbed wire baseball bat and stormed off, across the dried river bed and over to the hated spot.

I charged up to the gate and hit the intercom button. There was no answer so my first reaction was to accept the challenge. I yelled at him to come out, to look into the eyes of the guy he ran off the road so many years before. There was no response, and my initial exuberance was replaced by a buzzed confusion. I had also cut my hand on the bat, in my haste, so that tampered my mood somewhat.

I heard laughing and saw some of my college buddies nearby. Ah-ha, the old "pretend you are Gene Hackman challenging me to a fight so that I run across the desert with my bat" trick.

I felt quite foolish after that and thought that, maybe, it was time to let the Hackman feud die. I trundled back up to the apartment, cleaned the blood off my bat, and had a forlorn beer. It tasted of impotence and wasted years. Then I realized I was drinking Milwaukee's Best Ice.

In a normal world, that would be the end. Thankfully the world is far from normal.

Two years later, Hackman was arrested in LA for some road rage incident. A morning radio show in Florida was discussing the arrest when a listener called in and told them the St. John's "Hackman" story. A few days later one of them tracked me down and did an interview. I told them everything. They thought it was a great, so the following Tuesday they had a "yell at Hackman" segment, where people called up and blamed Hackman for things like cars not working or marriages failing. It stuck, and for a while the Hackman hate lived on.

Every once in a while I go back up to campus, and someone always asks me "hey, were you that guy who hated Gene Hackman? What was that about?". So I tell the story, and inevitably they ask to go up to the balcony and give it a shot. Sometimes we even climb the bell tower again.

And so it goes. People might say this whole story is stupid, absurd, and one of the most useless things they have read. And they would be right. For a while, though, up on that mountain, we tapped into something, some sort of primordial force that bonded people together. I am sure there are many people who will never forget the moment when they climbed the outside of a bell tower at 3 in the morning to scream away their troubles at an actor they had never met. It was like a baptism, only with beer and rage replacing holy water and servitude.

Hackman, you son of a bitch.

Monday, June 13, 2011

From Hell's Heart, I Stab At Thee (Hackman You Bastard Part 4)

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Read Part 2!

Read Part 1!

Even this baby knows you're dead inside.


And then it happened.

After years of searching in vain, of grasping at it in my dreams, getting so close, only to wake up with the rusty taste of rage in my mouth, I saw it.

His SUV.

That son of a bitch.

I was coming home from the same place (Owl's Liquors) on the same day, and he came into view. Its like the universe lined up so that I could make things right. This time, however, he was in front of me, so I wasn't victimized.

Instead I followed him. Up the windy road, keeping what I thought was a safe distance, until the demonic vehicle came up to a gate. I saw Gene Hackman, the man himself, get out of his car and say something into the intercom (probably cursing at babies or making jokes about the state of the Rainforests). The gate opened and he drove in. I didn't follow because even filled with rage I wasn't filled with crazy, but I did get a good view of the house.

I was giddy on the way back to school. I parked my car recklessly and ran up the stairs to the apartment shared with four other seniors. They were all engrossed in Starcraft so I grabbed a beer and headed for our kick ass balcony, which had a great view of the arroyo and mountain range behind the college.

And on that balcony, with the Fat Tire sweating away in my hand and the electronic beeping noises emanating through the doorway, the universe opened up. Everything became clear. It felt like time itself had stopped. Across the arroyo, sitting for all the world like a festering boil on the face of the mountain, I saw his house.

The white hot rage welled up inside of me and burst forth. I raised my hands to my face and my face to the heavens. I screamed out the words that I had waited almost 4 years to say. It was obvious that the fates themselves wanted this to happen, like they had woven our two threads into the most random and stupid of knots.

"Gene Hackman! You son of a bitch! I hate you, Gene Hackman, you goddamned bastard!"

I could feel the words sailing way across the dead river bed and into the windows of his house. My hands were tingling. There was no reaction but I knew he heard me. I felt like a weight had been lifted, like Simon himself had come down and taken my burden back to Cyrene with him.

I walked back into the apartment and saw the faces of the two girls sitting on the living room couch. There would be some explaining to do. I knew that. But I also knew this was only the beginning.

To be concluded in part 5: For Hate's Sake, I Spit My Last Breath At Thee.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

I Built This Rage Come Death (Hackman You Bastard Part 3)

Part Two

Part One



For a long time after that, nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except for the seething rage, the vivid red color of injustice, which festered inside me. I told my college buddies about the incident. They didn't believe me, or they believed me but didn't care. Most told me to let it go or told me Gene Hackman didn't live in Santa Fe anyway, and that I was a drunken idiot. While this was assuredly a truth, it wasn't the only truth. For them, life went on.

How lucky they were. For me, everything had changed that dark day. I no longer could watch Enemy of the State in ignorance. The antics of Lex Luthor ceased to bring a smile to my face. Hoosiers caused me to grind my teeth at every shot of his beautiful blue eyes- a window to his dark soul lurking behind, laughing at the world outside.

Two years passed by. I lived, I loved, I learned, while a part of me, separate from the rest, hated. It had no relief, though- nowhere to turn.

Until spring of Junior year.

It was then that the local paper wrote a story about a bunch of celebrities going to court against another celebrity over the rights to build a house higher on the mountain which, coincidentally enough, overlooked St. John's College. The rich and famous had always had palatial residences up there, and there was continual bickering about zoning and so forth. But this particular day, one celebrity had decided she would build her house higher and bigger than the rest. This could not stand, obviously, so the other mountain dwellers filed suit. In the article was a list of names. Among them, buried in the middle: Gene Hackman.

That son of a bitch.

Now I knew he was there- that it had been him all along. Not only was it him, he had been hiding in plain site, like a plot twist from one of his more turgid films: this whole time he had been living behind the school that I called home (and occasionally called other things involving steel chairs and barbed wire baseball bats). I showed the article to my friends, and the taste of vindication was sweet. But what to do? How to proceed? How could my blinding anger finally be put to rest?

A chance encounter four months later gave me the opportunity.

To be continued . . .