I used to really loathe the site of Richard Simmons, unless he was being tortured by David Letterman on The Late Show, coquettishly accepting Dave�s tongue-lashing or gracefully being sprayed with a fire extinguisher, but I�ve since changed my mind and have decided to get past the honey-spun afro and greased waxed legs. At first I thought Letterman must really hate him but then I realized a finer subtlety and nuance to their relationship that made me see it for what it is�a big space-toothed dominatrix who just happens to be wearing a suit giving it to a pink-sequined well-tanned geisha who loves nothing more than to see his Big Mistress smiling. They really enjoy these little exchanges, and it gives Letterman a chance to try his hand at homosexuality for a fleeting moment, all under the guise of Late Night comedy.

But the real reason behind How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Simmons is simply this: A bigger non-conformist has never walked the Earth in sparkling white tenny runners (I actually call them sneakers, but feel Shannon�s Michigan moniker is better in this case). I was being manipulated into hating him by the hegemony of humanity because it�s SO EASY. I don�t have to tell you that humans always look for someone to pick on whether it�s pretty girls, ugly girls, girls with bigger boobs, the girl that got the guy you wanted, weird people, creepy men, whales, whatever. Although smarter humans tend to stay away from openly making fun of creepy men because, well, they�re creepy and capable of God knows what. Allow me to digress for a moment on this creepy men point: There�s this awful huge guy named Paul that I see around Harvard Square all the time. He looks like an overgrown crunchy sorta punk cabbage patch kid with an afro and a bull ring. Now, Susan and Wil and I were coming out of Wil�s apartment one balmy evening last summer on our way to Shay�s or Charlie�s or some such drinking establishment and this asswip� (although I didn�t know he was an asswip� yet because I had only seen him working the door at what was then Lilli�s and so actually recognized him because he held a ticket for me to give to Brent for the Doughty show and so we had even had a pleasant exchange in the process) comes walking along, soaked in sweat, mind you he�s like 7 feet tall, I promise I�m not exaggerating, and we go to move outta da way to make way for da Paul, and he goes out of his way to hit Susan square in the chest with his fore-arm, knocking the wind out of her, and pushes me off the sidewalk with his gargantu-hand. It was so unexpected and so weird and he didn�t smell like liquor and Wil wanted to go after him but we were like �Don�t do it! He�s freakin� huge!� We then watched him push another girl who was walking with a guy. Apparently he was later arrested and supposedly hit the cop. That�s the word on the street, anyway. But the saga of Paul ButtOnion continues. Susan and I both had a chance to hit him with our cars on two separate occasions when he was walking in the crosswalk against the light. We both zoomed by him without allowing him to cross but obviously not hitting him� wooo�. We�re badass�. But that�s the point. There are certain people you kind of have to walk on eggshells around. I mean, yeah, in a perfect world I would give in to my urge to jam my Cross-pen into the milky white of his calf between those tattoos. Believe me, I�ve fantasized about it. Right in front of the travel agency and in front of God. But I can�t take the chance that he�ll follow me home one night. Or I could devise a diabolical plan to win his friendship and then do something well, diabolical� like what, I don�t know, something worth stroking a handlebar mustache over� but I�m not like that. You�re better off being anonymous to people like that. And it�s just not worth the time. And I don�t want to be tied karmatically to him for eons. Anyway, Brent and I saw him at the Man or Astroman? show at the Middle East upstairs where beer-delight is greatly diminished because of the plastic cups but you know, some asshole probably started a row somewhere down the line and threw a bottle or something, and who do we see standing there with a glass bottle of beer but� you guessed it, your favorite roustabout and mine� Paul! And guys like him are the reason girls like me have to sacrifice beer-delight by drinking out of plastic cups. And then the band suffers less applause than they would with bottles or glasses because you have to either gingerly clap so that you don�t crush said cup or you have to hold it in your teeth and clap but I always feel a little too Lady for that so it�s all Paul ButtOnion�s fault the band gets less applause. And yet he ends up smelling all powder fresh because he�s 7 feet tall and the band can see he�s clapping louder than anyone but they don�t notice he�s the only one with a glass bottle and they wonder why we�re not clapping as enthusiastically and curse us and our paltry offerings. For shame. Someone should squirt a douche in his glass bottle. Haha! See how ya like that, Paulie! Hahahahahahaha! Okay. End of digression.

So when it all turns over Richard Simmons can do whatever the hell he wants and tell people to do whatever he wants and David Letterman will be his Bitch (even though I do love Dave too). Now, if he turns out to be a serial rapist or something obviously I�ll change my tune� I�ll bet he pictures all the people who make fun of him sweatin� to the oldies and he�s like Lord of the Dance to them (I can�t get away from this Riverdance thing). See, Mr. Simmons is respectable because even though he has a cult, he doesn�t use his power for bad� only good. Even if he does wear those Balki Bartokomous vests. I think it�s almost ingenious� he manages to like OWN these people� he laughs and cries with them, helps them lose tons, and yet they don�t bow down and dress like him because, well, he dresses God-awfully� but it�s so selfless, it seems. He doesn�t get all Hitler on them like so many people with a little taste of power do. It�s part of our society. I mean, even down to we something as basic as the fact that we dress how our boss wants us to dress. So with Simmons, it�s like he really wants these people to be themselves too. It seems his approach to getting people to shed pounds, aside from getting them to sweat to whatever soundtrack DJ Dick sees fit, is by nurturing them to be themselves without worrying too much about the reactions of other humans. It�s really quite astute. He helps teach them to own themselves, I think, the good the bad and the ugly. And we need more of that in this place. And also� he has to have done something pretty special to be famous yet look and dress and act the way he does�FREAKISHKLY! And the beautiful thing is that he would agree. None of that �oh, no, I�m not a freak� shit. He owns it. This change in me occurred when I watched Mr. Simmons dancing on one of his infomercials late one night and he was doing the Hustle and his large white duck feet were ball-changing and jazz-squaring back and forth as gently as can be. And my heart grew three sizes that day and broke that little measuring device.

So back to my original point (I think) that I�m always trying not to make fun of people who really don�t deserve it, even if it makes me far less interesting and witty, and if something comes out of my mouth that is somewhat mean I try to figure out what it is about me that would make me say something cutting and nasty. The green-eyed monster? I�m feeling bloated? I�m feeling sharp? Boredom? Of course televangelists are fair game� um, politicians, yeah, some others, you know, those who deserve it. Y�all can do whatever you want�go ahead and make fun of people if you like. I promise you�ll be more in style and more readily accepted by most of your peers. Not the ones that matter though, I think. And yeah, when it comes down to it I�m sure for a second I�d rather be seen with some guy that looks like tattooed Paul ButtOnion but after 5 minutes I�d be tying the noose (for myself or him) and I�m sure I would much rather hang out with Richard Simmons. At least he�s not going to push me into the street. And he�s not pretending to be something he�s not (which could maybe be the source of Paul ButtOnion�s pent up anger that exploded so ebulliently on Susan and I that day? Hmmm).