Here in New York City, we have a so-called humor publication called The Rotten Apple. TRA models itself on (read: rips off without much success) magazines like The Onion and the Lampoon, but between the watered-down imitation and the myriad spelling and punctuation errors, not a whole lot of humor gets through. Once in a while, though, they run a brilliant story — for example, their front-page headline of a couple months ago, “Scott Baio Executed For Crimes Against Humanity.” The article detailed Baio’s numerous heinous offenses against pop culture, described cases of post-Charles In Charge stress disorder in a tone of affronted horror, and nearly made me wet my pants. But after I finished giggling at the doctored photos of “Chachi” with a noose around his neck and a revolver pointed at his head, I kept thinking about Scott Baio. The guy has made a string of horrible movies and TV shows. Not mediocre movies and TV shows; not bad movies and TV shows. Horrible movies. Horrible, HORRIBLE TV shows. Yet he has a career that spans twenty years. For some reason, Scott Baio keeps getting work. For some reason, producers continue to cast Scott Baio in their projects. For some reason, Scott Baio remains a recognizable name in spite of a stunning dearth of talent, a résumé packed with D-list films and sitcoms, and a face that looks like a stepped-on weasel. In other words, Scott Baio represents nothing less than a cultural criminal.

At first, this accusation might seem unwarranted. Well, let’s look over the evidence against Mr. Baio, shall we? So many lowlights, so little time . . .

1. Chachi. If I recall correctly, the Scottster really became a household name when he landed the role of Chachi — cousin of Fonzie and beau of the equally unfortunate-looking Joanie — on Happy Days. As a little kid, I used to watch reruns of Happy Days almost every day after school, not so much because I liked the show but because it came on right before The Brady Bunch, but anyway, I never understood the orgasmic screeching that greeted the appearance of Ferret Boy on the set, and I never understood how the other characters resisted the urge to drop-kick Chachi’s spindly little ass into next week. Anyway, instead of sitting young Scotty down and recommending that he become an accountant, the producers rewarded his suckiness by giving him his own deplorable spin-off, Joanie Loves Chachi. Two words: Spee. Yack.

2. Zapped! This dismal film had something to do with clandestine marijuana growing and Scatman Crothers, but I don’t know for sure, because I’ve never gotten through so much as the opening credits without suffering a seizure. I do, however, remember a Koosh-ball-esque feathered haircut and a pair of jeans so tight that I suspect the title of the film refers to Scott Baio’s sperm count.

3. Charles In Charge. I can’t even describe this show — which, by the way, coasts easily to victory as the worst ever broadcast on television — as a sitcom, because the word “sitcom” comes from the words “situation comedy,” and I challenge even the most optimistic of mental vegetables to find any humor in a half-hour of CIC. Hackneyed plot-lines and imbecilic “jokes” that even the writers of Three’s Company would have rejected as too stupid, the retinal assault of garish acid-washed clothing worn by the cast, Ellen Travolta’s teeth, and the thespian stylings of Willie Aames — all this, and Scott Baio walking around in a cut-off sweatshirt. Cultural crimes, I tell you.

4. The Truth About Alex. This abysmal after-school special attempted to deal in a sensitive manner with the coming out of a popular high-school football player, portrayed NOT by Scott Baio — he obviously couldn’t endanger his status as a mid-‘80s “Teen Beat” cover staple by playing a gay character — but by the much- much-cuter Peter Spence. Scott Baio played the gay character’s best friend, who has to deal with the prejudices of friends and family blah blah blah fishcakes. It sounds fairly innocuous, doesn’t it? Well, picture Scott Baio, muscles in his neck a-twang, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “MY BEST FRIEND IS NOT A FAG!” Still
want to see it? Didn’t think so.

5. Directorial pretensions. Scott Baio has directed not one but two TV shows: Harry and the Hendersons, a hopeless show derived from an equally hopeless movie; and Out Of This World, a show based around a girl with a human mother (played by the same actress who played the girl who got raped in the car in Saturday Night Fever, who didn’t change her hairstyle by so much as one hair) and an alien father. Baron Von Baio’s association with this dreck shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, but it does pretty much ice the guilty verdict.

Scott’s roles in Skatetown U.S.A. and The Boy Who Drank Too Much? Exhibits for the prosecution. Scott’s guest appearances on Full House and his character on Diagnosis Murder? Nails in the coffin (or on the blackboard, if you will). Scott Baio must be stopped before he kills again.

American popular culture has dozens of criminals like Scott Baio in its midst — men and women (and children — viz. the Olsen twins) who make very handsome livings trespassing against talent and taste. These people make enough money to buy their own island nations, and why? Why do they reap rewards for getting on our nerves and showing terrible judgment in the projects they choose? Why do they garner fame and fortune simply by virtue of sucking rocks publicly? I mean, look at Dudley Moore. On second thought, don’t — one sideways glance at those snaggly teeth could melt a cornea in no time at all. Dudley Moore has parlayed a British accent, a whiny upper-register voice that without aforementioned British accent would have Fran Drescher suing his lumpy ass for trademark infringement, and a Tater-Tot body into something resembling a career, and now he won’t go away — he tried to drink himself to death and landed right back in the spotlight as a result. Sir Dudley’s relative savvy in accepting roles opposite actresses even more unrelentingly painful to watch than himself does not change the fact that, in real life, none, but NONE, of these women would have favored him with more than a reflexive shudder of disgust, much less consented to follow his midget ass into bed, and thus the Tomato Nation tribunal cannot absolve him of the following counts of felonious nausea inducement:

1. Arthur and Arthur 2: On The Rocks. Even Liza Minnelli could do better than this guy. And let’s get something straight — Moore can stumble around hiccupping all he wants, but it doesn’t make him an actor; it makes him a drunk with a camera in the room.

2. Micki & Maude. Somewhere, someone thought audiences would believe that a character played by a mossy-toothed lawn gnome could bag not one but two babes AT THE SAME TIME. I mean, COME ON.

3. Six Weeks. No comment.

4. 10. Okay. Bo Derek can’t act. Bo Derek can’t modulate her voice. Bo Derek probably can’t feed herself or tie her own shoes. But even if Bo Derek had eczema, Tourette’s, and a colostomy bag that she twirled around her head while singing “Coney Island Baby,” she still wouldn’t give Dudley Moore a second look.

Dudley Moore has perpetrated crimes against the cinema so serious that, if the US had lost the Revolutionary War back in the day, he would have forced us to give it another go. And the British wonder why the Irish want an independent state? I mean, talk about your English atrocities.

In coming weeks, I’ll give other cultural criminals the gas. I know it seems difficult to believe that anyone could offend the sensibilities more deeply than Scott Baio, but I won’t disappoint you. Two words: Eric. Roberts.

We Who Are About To Barf — Oh, Forget It

Welcome to the second installment of the Tomato Nation series on crimes against pop culture. Before I begin the proceedings, a quick word on what qualifies an individual to receive an indictment as a cultural criminal. An alleged cultural criminal must have achieved a certain level of fame, and he or she must have done so by producing or performing in annoying, stupid, and critically lambasted (or ignored) works of “art” with absolutely no merit whatsoever except as objects of withering scorn. In addition, an alleged cultural criminal must demonstrate a maddening inability to realize his or her complete lack of talent, and must refuse to go away and leave us in peace, choosing instead to amass a large personal fortune and infuriate us further. And now, without further ado, this week’s docket of cultural felons . . .

GALLAGHER. Quite possibly the Ted Bundy of cultural criminals, Gallagher achieved household-name status by pulverizing melons with a sledgehammer, sticking gooey pieces of chocolate cake to walls, reciting poorly scanned poetry on various unamusing topics, and delivering hackneyed monologues on “comedy gold” subjects like driving and going to the dentist. Not content to torture us with his kindergarten insights and “The Frugal Gourmet Gets ‘Roid Rage” food stylings, Gallagher compounds his crimes by kitting himself out in the most nauseating manner possible; nut-cracking flood pants, a chest-hair-exposing velour v-neck, and one of J.J. Walker’s cast-off driving caps form his basic ensemble, which he tops off with mangy uncombed hair and a straggly Fu Manchu mustache that does nothing to disguise his hideous overbite. The last time the sadists in the programming department at Comedy Central aired the dreaded Gallagher special, I forced myself to watch for a few minutes, and I must say that I found the reaction shots of the wildly guffawing audience even more disturbing than Gallagher himself — I mean, how many times do you have to go through the windshield head-first before you find the untimely demise of a cantaloupe funny? Of course, I don’t know what I expected from a roomful of adults wearing sweatshirts with duckies on the front, but if a man that revolting can get a laugh just by holding a zucchini aloft and wiggling his eyebrows, we as a nation have a serious problem.

TORI SPELLING. Notwithstanding her pioneering role as a test case for experimental plastic surgery procedures, the woman does not belong in front of a camera, not least because the ongoing reconstruction has done nothing to improve her looks. Possibly she stages these physical transformations in order to distract attention from her stunning lack of acting ability, but alas, neither her nose’s disappearing act nor the Playskool-Barbershop evolution of her hairstyle nor the ninth-wonder-of-the-world chasm between her breast implants have managed to hide the fact that Tori couldn’t act her way out of a Miracle Bra. Naturally, since her résumé consists of the word “Daddy,” little considerations like this don’t matter as much as they otherwise might, but she played the title role in Co-ed Call Girl, for god’s sake — could the casting directors have chosen anyone LESS believable for that role? Did they WANT a woman who looked like an anorexic flounder?

DAVID HASSELHOFF. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but during the original run of Knight Rider, I had a fairly large crush on David Hasselhoff. Something about him — the vinyl Members Only jacket with the cuffs unbuttoned, perhaps, or the skin-tight contrast-stitched double-dyed jeans, or the hair shaped like an offended dandelion — made my fourth-grade heart beat a little faster. Eventually, the affair began to turn sour: I questioned Michael’s relationship with April; I wondered why he only used Super Pursuit Mode when Pursuit Mode would probably have done just as well. Then the two-part episode aired in which Hasselhoff played not only Michael Knight but also his evil twin Garth, who looked like Michael but with blow-dried hair and a soul patch and who drove a huge truck named Behemoth or something, and by the time I had removed the fork from my eyeball, I knew that the crush had ended, and that one day I would have to turn Hasselhoff in as a cultural criminal. That day arrived recently when I channel-surfed past Baywatch and watched in horror as Hasselhoff — sporting a Samsonite tan and obviously wearing a girdle — earnestly delivered the line, “You have more natural talent than any lifeguard I’ve ever seen.” Moments later, the end credits rolled to the accompaniment of Hasselhoff’s tuneless warbling. I don’t want him killed, just extradited to Germany; they buy his records, and besides, after Milli Vanilli, they owe us.

THE OLSEN TWINS. Irrefutable proof that God has given up on the human race.

BOB SAGET. And WHY did God give up on the human race? Okay, let’s just say for the sake of argument that you, a deity of infinite knowledge and power, created the heavens and the earth and so on, and let’s say that you created the human race as well. Let’s say that, in spite of the human race’s fondness for making war, abusing the planet you made for it, and inventing dumb crap like Sans-a-belt pants and EZ Cheez, you continued to keep an eye out for the human race in your infinite mercy and wisdom. Then let’s say that one day you got tired of playing three-handed hearts with St. Peter and Moses and decided to watch some television, and you happened to tune in to America’s Funniest Home Videos as Bob Saget did a falsetto voice-over of a squirrel falling out of a tree. Now, would you extend any further protection to the people of the earth, or would you say to yourself, “First Alan Thicke and now this — I can’t work with this material”? I don’t know about you, but I’d give it up as a bad job and start over with Mars or something.

C. THOMAS HOWELL. For several years after his turn in The Outsiders, casting agents mistook Howell’s prominent Adam’s apple for talent. Thankgodfully (tm xix), that didn’t last long, and he went on to star in a string of B movies (including one called Jailbait, which may or may not allude to his eternally pubescent appearance), but not before committing a couple of felonies against culture. Let’s start with Soul Man, in which he co-starred with cultural pickpocket Arye Gross. This somewhat offensive and totally not funny film airs more or less constantly on various cable channels and secondary networks, probably because programmers can get it for next to nothing since it sucks so bad (three words: Rae. Dawn. Chong). Howell doesn’t necessarily deserve blame for this, but the nearly omnipresent sight of him in blackface and an Afro wig has elevated Soul Man to a crime against culture. He also starred in the beach volleyball movie Side Out, along with Peter Horton of thirtysomething fame. I don’t recommend watching this film above the first floor of a building, because after about ten minutes, the urge to hurl yourself out of a window will become nearly irresistible. I would mention the short-lived cop-vampire series Kindred: The Embraced, in which the youthful Howell played a tough cop (whatever) entangled in a romance (whatever) with the very vampires he needed to investigate (whatever), but — oh, whatever.

HARRY HAMLIN. First of all, the man is basically a log with lips. Second of all, um, Clash of the Titans?

We Have Already Barfed

Welcome back to the Tomato Nation series on cultural criminals — the last installment, since I can’t take much more of this. And now, today’s docket . . .

PAULY SHORE. Okay, all you Hollywood producers out there — time for a reality check. Let’s say that you have blonde hair and large breasts and look positively flammable in a string bikini. Do you give Pauly Shore a second glance? No, you do not. Let’s say that you have an IQ anywhere above the lower double-digit range. Do you find Pauly Shore amusing? No, you do not. Let’s say that you have a lucrative and fulfilling career as a Hollywood producer. Do you continue to green-light projects involving Pauly Shore? No, you do not. Oh, wait — my mistake. You do. WHY DO YOU DO THIS? WHY? Liberace made a more believable romantic lead than this twerp, for god’s sake, so give him a tin of Sex Wax and a haircut and send his skinny ass HOME already.

DARYL HANNAH. Last night, I watched the TV remake of Rear Window, starring Christopher Reeve (no sensation below the neck) and Daryl Hannah (no sensation above the neck). Guess which actor showed better range? Anyway, the sound of Grace Kelly spinning like a dreidl in her grave distracted me from some of the finer points of this updated version, and I got confused when Christopher Reeve would address his lines to a large piece of driftwood, or to a Real Doll wearing an accordion headband, but everything became clear once I identified the inanimate object as Daryl Hannah. Why didn’t they just cast Resuscitation Annie? At least you can get a pulse on that thing. Daryl has nearly ruined too many decent movies to go into here, but I will say this — anyone wishing to argue that blondes do not enjoy a ridiculous advantage in our culture does not have a leg to stand on as long as Daryl Hannah continues to exist. (And yes, existence as an inert gas counts.)

ERIC ROBERTS. It saddens me to call Julia Roberts the more talented sibling in the family, but I have no choice. Eric Roberts has appeared in so many dismal movies, most of which never saw an actual theater reel (and all of which feature the exact same performance from Roberts, except for his nose, which looks different in every role), that I won’t bother to list all of them. But if you want a rough idea of what comprises Roberts’s rap sheet, pick up a copy of The Pope of Greenwich Village from your neighborhood Blockbuster. Made in 1984 before Eric’s face melted down, this inexplicably acclaimed film stars Roberts and that other fine practitioner of the acting craft, Mickey Rourke. Don’t bother watching the whole film — just fast-forward to the scene where Roberts, clad in a agonizingly tight pair of pants and sporting a multi-process root perm that would make Richard Marx salivate with envy, staggers around holding his bloody hand and moaning, “My t’umb! Dey took my t’umb, Charlieeeee!” Not appealing? Okay, try renting Star 80 and watching the dueling schools of bad acting, as Eric takes huge bites out of the scenery while Mariel Hemingway imitates someone in a coma. Don’t think your stomach lining can take it? All right, imagine Marlee Matlin, with a broken nose, smoking a bowl of crack the size of Qualcomm stadium and starring in an Ed Wood movie. As Sylvester Stallone. With a lisp. And hockey hair. Or you could just take my word for it.

KIRK CAMERON. Two words: Worth. Less.

THE COREYS. We must of course try these two together, since they have perpetrated so many of their heinous crimes in each other’s company. Both Feldman and Haim had promising beginnings. Feldman’s career took off with the acclaimed Stand By Me, but this may have proved his undoing, since the intervening years haven’t treated any of the four lead actors very kindly. Jerry O’Connell wound up in Fox-Fridays hell on the schlock-fi series Sliders; Wil Wheaton wound up playing scrawny dweeb Ensign Crusher on the favorite series of scrawny dweebs everywhere, Star Trek: The Next Generation; River Phoenix wound up dead; and Corey Feldman wound up . . . Corey Feldman. Haim also got off to a decent start with the lead role in the teen-angst sleeper Lucas. Then the two Coreys teamed up for the first, but unfortunately not nearly the last, time in The Lost Boys, and things started to go downhill when every teen magazine in creation starting calling them “foxy.” More incredible still, the Coreys believed their own press. This arrogance led to a series of Corey movies like License To Drive, Dream A Little Dream (and its even more noisome sequel), straight-to-trivia projects like Busted and Blown Away, and a couple of limping National Lampoon films. Consider License To Drive the Coreys’ mug shot, ground zero of their every annoying tic and mannerism, from Feldman’s painfully unfunny Luke Perry-meets-“Spy Vs. Spy” antics to Haim’s bug-eyed spluttering and that trademark anti-cute half-smile with the tongue showing. Virtually unemployable together, they do even worse on their own. Don’t believe me? Rent Prayer Of The Rollerboys or Snowboard Academy sometime. Go ahead. I dare you.

CURTIS ARMSTRONG. This guy needs to shave, lose thirty pounds, and seriously consider a career in insurance — or at least stop making Revenge Of The Nerds sequels. I mean, the man’s résumé has “Booger” on it. FOUR TIMES.

DAN CORTESE. Heir apparent to the Harry Hamlin “log with lips” throne, Cortese first frayed American nerves during his stint on MTV Sports. He then began trampling those nerves in earnest when he appeared in Burger King’s seizure-inducing “BKTV” campaign, which consisted of Big Dan — attired in “grunge” clothing and unsuccessfully trying to channel Jeff Spicoli — popping up in the middle of hand-held shots and enthusing, “I LOVE this place!” with all the persuasiveness of a wet mop. Or maybe he did the BK ads first and then got the MTV Sports job, but since he sucked rocks in both of them, it doesn’t really matter. Cortese then went on to the role of Jake-hating, Jo-beating Jess on Melrose Place. The writers never bothered to explain how any woman, even the long-suffering and zaftig Jo, could find Dan’s goofy goatee and floppy Deputy-Dog hairstyle attractive, much less how an extreme sport-playing wind-up toy with all the charisma of corrugated cardboard beat out actual humans for this role. These days, Dan has a new haircut and a gig on NBC’s Thursday-night abomination Veronica’s Closet, and his acting doesn’t seem that bad — until we subtract the scenery munching of Kirstie Alley and Kathy Najimy. Then, Cortese’s acting seems like, well, a log. With lips.

DON JOHNSON. Dear Don: Please take your pastel Armani suits, your stubble, your The Harrod Experiment buttcheeks, your involvement in Harley Davidson And The Marlboro Man, your umpteen marriages to Melanie Griffith, your 17-year-old girlfriend, your stupid Heartbeat album and the accompanying movie, and your weird-ass little dwarf teeth and go away. Love, the entire world. P.S.: Take Melanie and her big old tank of helium and her big old silicone implants with you. P.P.S.: Make sure Melanie leaves Antonio Banderas here.

STEVE GUTTENBERG. If you haven’t seen Can’t Stop The Music, in which Guttenberg not only downs some magic mushrooms at a garden party with the Village People but also roller-skates joyfully down the streets of Manhattan, perhaps you don’t understand the heartless nature of his crimes. It pains me to have to indict a member of the cast of Diner, but the Police Academy movies alone carry a maximum sentence, not to mention the Three Men And A Career Suicide series. I won’t even talk about Don’t Tell Her It’s Me, because I just can’t, but if you want to see some absolutely unbelievable hair, catch the flick some night during the cable graveyard shift — William Katt’s clown poof in Carrie crossed with Randy Johnson’s stringy ape drape. I kid you not.

MR. DRUMMOND on Diff’rent Strokes. Find me a sitcom parent batting lower than this guy. What kind of advice did he give those kids?

PLANET HOLLYWOOD. If I have to explain why Planet Hollywood (and its co-conspirators, the Cafés Hard Rock, Fashion, and All-Star) has received an indictment, then maybe you should climb back up on the turnip truck before you get hurt. Either that, or you really don’t mind plunking down $12.95 for a cheeseburger so that Bruce Willis can get even an even filthier shade of rich.

BLOCKBUSTER. The way I see it, EITHER Blockbuster can charge me five bucks to rent a movie that I don’t really want because they have seventy-five copies each of The Wedding Singer and Good Burger and nothing else, OR they can have their blue-shirted imbecile minions yell “HI” into my face every time I walk into the store and then not know where to find their butts with both hands when I want to find the documentary section, but NOT BOTH. And if the minions have orders from corporate headquarters to address me by name when I rent a movie, can someone PLEASE teach them HOW TO PRONOUNCE IT? I mean, names do NOT get any easier to sight-read than “Sarah,” and I want to watch a film, not explain the concept of the silent “h” to the half-wit du jour, so the next time some no-clue-having, yellow-visor-wearing feeb calls me “Sar Ha,” I want a full refund.

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