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We learned about Richard Kiel's church appearance on the Saturday
morning before we left for Disneyworld. After being exhausted by the
"place cleaner than Switzerland"--it's not anymore--and by four hours of
sleep the previous night, I had left Orlando early to catch Kiel's speech
at 6pm Sunday night. It was at a Baptist church in a town the size of my
microwave, so we found it easily, blissfully ignorant of what was ahead. I
had chided myself for not bringing some fried chicken-at least a cherry
pie.
At the church, they started us out with a hymn, which we sang along
to, not wanting to look suspicious. Then came a prayer. Then an
introduction by some guy who knew Kiel for all of two days, yet acted as
though they had played darts together, slapped their wives around
together, and admired velvet paintings of dogs together for thirty years.
After that, Noel and I endured four songs a la "Up With People" done to
the accompaniment of a karaoke machine and interspersed prayers. It was a
man and a woman, approximately our age, we thought. Turned out the man
was 26, and had either just been or was about to go to, his ten-year high
school reunion. Insert crappy philosophizing here. When he was done with
his nonsensical, trite, car salesman-like blabbing, they did a song called
"Goodbye to Me." We got excited, thinking (and rightly so!) it was the
last song. It wasn't, of course. Around that time I had to utilize the
advanced zen techniques I had learned in "Zen and the Art of Sitting in a
Baptist Church for Three Hours While Fighting the Desire to Snipe From a
Watchtower" to keep from crying, screaming, or laughing to the point of
being institutionalized. I couldn't tell which, and didn't want to find
out. Anyway, the woman had on a bright red dress. Jezebel. She had some
nerve!
Meanwhile Kiel sat and sat. He looked at one point as if he
actually enjoying the music, but I suspect it was gas. His demeanor was
poised-or at least as poised as a seven-foot two behemoth can look sitting
on a pulpit. He wasn't squirming; he didn't see m nervous about delivering
his message. He was just basking in the glow of the fake candlelight.
When Rich finally took the podium it was as if a normal man was
standing on the thing. He showed us his teeth, reassuring us that he
doesn't bite--funny, but I still don't believe him. We did another prayer,
then a hymn called "Jesus is my Friend," whic h reminds Kiel "of his
father, from age 8, 9, 10, 11.... (pregnant pause).... up until age 15."
He said his dad accepted Christ after never going to church. He remembers
from age "8, 9, 10, 11, 12 up to age 15 his father being devout."
Apparently, it was Kiel's mother who was responsible for Kiel's father
accepting Christ as his savior after years of being a heathen, and it was
the Count from Sesame Street who was responsible for Kiel's inspiring
counting ability.
During the last song, a girl and a guy dressed like a cross
between Elvis Costello and Siouxsie Soux sat down in front of us. We
assumed they were MST fans, since everyone else was as old as dirt, and
wearing cheap Laura Ashley rip-offs (even the men). M ore about them
later. Let's just say we were very wrong.
One of the highlight's of Kiel's moving speech was "How many of
you get angry on the freeway, and say 'you jerk!'?" Basically he compared
the idle threat of saying "I'm going to kill you (if you don't get out of
my way)" to murder. Actual murder, since the feeling is the same. I don't
remember what his point was.
His aunt told him he should be the Jolly Green Giant on "Let's
Make a Deal." He never went (probably because he spilled beer on the
costume the night before). He worked as a fuller-brush salesman, a
screen-door salesman, and a dominatrix at a swinger's club. Oops....how'd
that get in there.
He met a young evangelist at age ten, who inspired him (maybe
because of the evangelist's bartending ability?). He taught him the
basics of scripture (or mixing).
So Kiel finally moves to North Hollywood and can't get an
agent. He tries the last one on his list-a 'Z.' Unfortunately for the
world, jackpot. Turns out that agent had signed Gumby just three hours
beforehand. Quite a coincidence, eh?
Kiel threw himself into the Hollywood party scene. He went to
Bunny Fischer's party, Eddie's half-brother. It got "racy," so Kiel left
(see Gumby web page for actual details). Much speculation has been made on
the meaning of "racy," which could very well
have meant Fischer's gang was playing with naked lady cards. This is the
epitome of Kiel right here, that he went to a party of a relative of
"someone" (Eddie Fischer, natch) and that he left because it was too "racy."
I hear from Jack Lemmon's second cousin, who was also at Fischer's party,
that Gumby had come over with his posse-a few grips, coupla best boys, a
no-good gaffer. They were a bad crowd, always going out for margaritas.
Thick with the union.
Apparently, Kiel's bulemia had gotten so bad that....wait. His
drinking had gotten so bad that he worried his kids would have no father,
his wife no husband (i.e. he didn't want to do them any favors). He turned
to prayer. As soon as he got involved with the church, he became the
worst actor ever.
He told us about when he was offered a beer commercial, and how
he struggled with the idea and finally refused (after his wife encouraged
him). Then he told us about the valedictorian of some high school, a
beautiful girl he compared to Brooke Shield's in "The Blue Lagoon" (in
other words, he saw her naked?) who was killed on graduation night by a
driver under the influence (of what? It could've been anything. Coffee?
Sugar? He was on a sugar high?). Kiel also said that his daughter's
babysitter was killed on her porch by the same kind of driver. No, it was
the babysitter he compared to Shields, which makes more sense, because he
could have had sex with her more easily.
He wondered what would have happened if the drivers had been
drinking "his" beer (the beer he might have endorsed); in other words, he
thought that the world revolves around Richard Kiel so much that it
matters what beer he endorses. As if the lives of the kids that died mean
less than Kiel's conscience.
At the end of his talk, he asked us to bow our heads in prayer
(while he imbibed, we assume). While our heads were down, he asked for
people willing to be born-again-willing to accept Jesus as their savior-to
raise their hands. Allegedly, a few people did, the way Kiel made it
seem. Later, when our heads were up, he asked if those people who raised
their hands would come forward to let Kiel make them born-again. No one
came forward, and Kiel started to cry. We noticed this after his speech,
when he sat back down and tears rolled off his face. First, he made it
out like this born-again thing was going to be anonymous, then he asked
them to come forward. In the minister's introduction, he mentioned that
Kiel had converted (or whatever) about 20 young men a t the Florida
Correctional Institution, and a few at Shand's hospital (they pronounced
it "Shaund's"). So I guess that makes Kiel God or something--at least he
seemed to think he is.
Three hours later, we were partly released from our misery. Noel
was adamant on needing proof that we were there, while I was sickened and
wanted to leave. Some people, mostly middle-aged men, converged around
Kiel, eager for tales and details of his stint as "Jaws" in two Bond movies.
But he was still upset, and looked like hell. The skin around his
eyes had turned black, his eyes were really bloodshot, and he was scary
enough as it was. Noel waited, while I purged in the collection bowl.
Kiel had told us to wait until the people with questions had gone. So,
after these people decided to get back to their pathetic, meaningless
lives, Noel walked up to Kiel, shook his hand, showed him the Twilight
Zone tape he had brought for Kiel to sign, and posed next to him for a
photo. It was the most thrilling moment in Noel's life.
Nothing will ever compare to it. Well, maybe the day he got temporarily
blinded by a hurtling tennis ball, but otherwise... What seemed like
days later, we left the church and drove to a cookie-cutter fern
restaurant with those waiters and waitresses who think they're sassy but
they're just really annoying, not to mention bad servers, passing the
born-again Motorcycle gang on the way. Amen!
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