Slap Shots

Porn to Be Mild
Tommy Lee, tattooed drummer for the heavy metal band Motley Crue, sits buck naked on a powerboat knifing its way through an unknown body of tropical water. His young bride, model/thespian Pamela Anderson, also starkers, lounges her sleek blond form across the deck of the speeding craft, her little red Baywatch flotation thing nowhere in sight.

A recurring nightmare of David Hasselhoff? Nope, it's the actual home video smuggled from the actual home of this young Hollywood couple, the very same footage they've tried to suppress, and the current contraband-of-choice for America's gossip-starved VCRs! The logical successor to the once-infamous home-porn video of Jayne and Leon Kennedy! The talked-about 40 minutes of tape that has hit San Francisco just in time for the holidays!

Let's listen in, and discover for ourselves exactly what goes on in the private lives of the nation's sexiest couple:

"Who's driving?" asks Tommy.
"Nobody," answers Pamela. "Where's my cocktail?"
Of course, the above sample of chitchat is not what we want to see in our stolen celebrity home video. We want to watch the young pretty people having sex, darn it! Eventually they do -- in the car on the highway, on the boat, and everywhere else young people "get busy" these days. But what is most interesting about this video is how uninteresting most of it is. Whoever has edited and dubbed these tapes (a mysterious PO box in Southern California) has included 36 minutes of innocuous footage that amounts to nothing more than those boring personal moments in your basic home video: Pamela in the bath, shyly avoiding Tommy with the camera. Their wedding vows. Pamela backstage getting her hair sprayed by makeup people. Folks following Pamela down a hotel hallway. Pamela in a bikini, unwrapping a birthday gift basket of plastic ducks. People goofing around on a laptop computer. Pamela standing in front of their new home:

Pamela: "This is our house!"
Tommy: (behind camera) "It's fuckin' gonna be RAD!"
The following account may spoil things for those of you who are intent on getting your own copies of the video, but the rest of you should know that the viewing experience would convey these essential facts to you:

1) Not only is Tommy hung like a palomino; he also has a large tattoo across his stomach that reads "MAYHEM."

2) Pamela is hardly ever seen fully nude on camera.
3) They communicate with each other primarily through mewlings such as, "Bay-bee, I love you so much!" and, "Oh, me too, baby!"

4) They both smoke pot.
There's something strange about going along with the voyeuristic impulses of modern society. Media gossips continually hype and tease us with prurient tidbits about the famous; yet when you finally get to watch the goods, as it were, not only does the reality seem boring, you actually feel kind of sick at the intrusion that watching represents. And, of course, there are the ethical questions. Do Tommy and Pamela really want anyone to see this video? Would I want anyone to see me doing something like this? Would I ever buy a camcorder? How much are they?

More unusual than a home porno tape would be evidence of unexpectedly substantive secret or unusual lives behind the celebrity facade. We already think we know that these two people are famous dimwits -- a metalhead musician and his bimbette miracle of modern surgery. But what if Tommy were actually a highly skilled cabinetmaker, who moonlighted as a translator for the U.N.? Imagine Pamela Anderson as a voodoo priestess/assassin addicted to old Enrico Caruso records. And both of them, roaring across the waves in a speedboat, having sex and launching fragmentation grenades into luxury hotel restaurants.

"Oh, I love you so much, baby! You took out the whole cabana!"
Now that would be some interesting home video.

The Season Is Upon Us
Overheard by Tom McNichol in a local store on Thanksgiving weekend: "No luck on the baster. Do you want me to check on the scented candles?"

Curse of the Genetic Code
The scene: an airport gate in the Midwest where a plane destined for San Francisco is docked. A baby hangs onto a stroller for dear life, screaming and crying loud enough to crack the runways, a keening wail that seems to rise and fall with varying tones of desperation. The father boasts a big fat gut-sack encased in a tight Florida Gators T-shirt; his stretch-pants wife also checks in with a comparable meat-eatin' paunch. Neither pays any attention to the shrieking spawn, who has attracted the attention of the neighboring gates. An elderly man with bushy eyebrows, wearing a beret, leans over to the father and chuckles, "It sounds like an opera." Florida Gut-Sack jabs the air with a chubby finger, and guffaws, "She's gonna be sittin' next to YOU, dude!"

Address all correspondence to: Slap Shots, c/o SF Weekly, 185 Berry, Lobby 4, Suite 3800, San Francisco, CA 94107; phone: 536-8152; e-mail: boulware@sirius.com.

By Jack Boulware

 
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