Malignant Narcissism

Above: Hugh Hefner at his 97th birthday party being propped up for the photo by his great-granddaughters, Ditzi, Glitzi, and Dopey.


Malignant Narcissism. Say what? Is it a disease? Is it contagious? Can it be avoided? How will I know if I’ve got it? Is there a cure?

It was by sheer accident that I came across this magnificent term. Like you, I get lots of emails each day that I’d rather not get. I got one recently from a quasi-religious news organization that contained an article comparing the contrast in spiritual beliefs between Sarah Palin and Oprah Winfrey.

The author describes Sarah Palin as your basic bible totin’ believer in God. He describes Oprah as a “New Ager”. You know, “I am God, so who needs the real one?” According to the author, James Bowie Johnson, Jr., "Oprah believes that divine revelation comes from her new age guru, Eckhart Tolle -- and that he is infallible and that his words supercede the words of Christ and all of scripture."

The article goes on to say, Tolle is author of the bestseller A New Earth. The book encourages readers to find the so-called goodness that is already in them, and allowing that goodness to emerge.

Johnson describes Tolle as "a case study in the development of the mental illness of malignant narcissism" and someone who is "obsessed with the two-dimensional reflection of his own image."

Ouch! I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Tolle just got his arse kicked!

A lot of people suffer from this malady, malignant narcissism. Many of them seem to be celebrities that have long since lost contact with Planet Earth. They’ve spent so much time thinking about themselves and looking into the mirror that all perception of reality has abandoned them. They begin to believe the false image they have created for the public is really who they are.

I love it when the media interviews some of these afflicted people. They’re actually convinced that what they think and say to be good and beneficial for us, the unwashed masses. I think members of the media sometimes deliberately goad them into saying things that will make them sound stupid on TV or in print.

Sometimes the interviewers themselves suffer from malignant narcissism. Have you ever listened to what is said by those ditzoids on The View. When we start to take advice from the likes of Whoopi Goldberg, you know, as a society, we’re in a heap of trouble.

One of my favorite examples of this illness is Pamela Anderson. She is drop-dead gorgeous from head to toe. But, when she opens her mouth, incoherent drivel spews forth and she becomes the poster child for Stepford Women advocates.

Some might want to accuse The Donald of this ailment, but not me. I like the Don. He’s got a great sense of humor and he keeps his celebrity in a balanced perspective. OK, I really like him because he picks on Rosie O’Donnell.

When I first saw the term malignant narcissism, the first person I thought of was the King of Hedonism himself, Hugh Hefner. No one in all of human history has loved himself more than Hef has. Even in his old age he desperately wants to project an image of supreme virility to himself and to the world.

He lives in a castle in Holmby Hills, Los Angeles, California with three beautiful young women. Holly seems to be his main squeeze and is always talking about her and Puffin getting married. Yeah, right. This may not have occurred to her, but her Puffin was a grandfather long before she was even born. All the Viagra in California couldn’t jump-start any action here.

I will confess that I really like Hef’s TV show, “The Girls Next Door”. It’s a cute show. It’s one of the few shows on TV that I will even sit down to watch. Wherever the girls go or whatever they’re doing, there’s Hef toddling along behind them, working hard just to keep his balance.

My favorite character on this show is Kendra, the baby of the bunch. She is beautiful, but whenever she says something she makes Pamela Anderson look like a Rhodes scholar. She laughs a lot, usually after she says something absurd. Her laughter is contagious and she makes me laugh. She really, really, really likes the “F” word and tries to work it into each sentence at least three times. That amounts to a whole lotta bleepin.

Its too bad Hef didn’t stick with Barbi Benton. She was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. She’s 58 now and still quite beautiful. Actually, Hef is only 82, but since he refuses to grow old gracefully, I hope he lives to be at least 102.

And so does he.

The Color of Politics

In April of 1962 I went with my family to Florida for Spring Break. My dad was a pilot and we flew to Ft. Lauderdale in our own airplane. Since we frequently traveled out of state like this, I took it for granted. I hadn’t yet realized that I was a child of privilege and that most people did not live like this. I was about as naïve as any kid could be.

Among the many things I didn’t know was the extent to which blacks were being discriminated against right here in the United States. In school we studied that the Emancipation Proclamation that Abraham Lincoln had issued in 1863 had guaranteed their equality. But, having freedom on paper wasn’t quite the same as being able to live freely with dignity.

Mostly through church affiliations my parents and my grandparents had friends that just happened to be black. I had friends at school that just happened to be black. To me this was all quite normal. To the best of my knowledge I didn’t know anyone who was a racist.

I had heard the “N” word used in reference to blacks by whites that I considered to be low-class. I was aware that something in the south was stirring called Civil Rights, but really had no idea what it was all about. Like most kids, whatever was on the nightly news was of little interest to me. But, my protected, insular world was about to be invaded by a dose of harsh reality.

We took off about 7:00 a.m. from the small airport in Romeo, Michigan where Dad kept our plane hangered. We landed at the airport in Macon, Georgia that afternoon to refuel and get something to eat. Mom and my sisters headed for the terminal restaurant while Dad supervised the refueling.

I loved these stops at airports that I had never been to before. I headed for the hangers to see what planes were being stored or worked on. I promised Dad that I would join them at the restaurant in about twenty minutes.

The mechanics in the hangers were friendly enough and answered whatever questions popped into my head. I was satisfied with my little exploration; so I decided I’d better get on over to the restaurant.

As I was leaving the hanger I saw a sign that said, “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing down a sidewalk along the side of the building. I had to go so I headed down the walkway. I saw the word Men on a door that was half open. As I walked in I barely noticed a sign above the doorway.

I only got a few feet into the room when I stopped. A feeling came over me like something was very, very wrong. But, I didn’t know what it was. I turned and walked out of the room back onto the sidewalk. I looked up at the sign that was over the doorway. It just said, “COLORED”.

Confused, I stood there staring at it for several moments. Does that mean what I think it means? I turned to look at the doorway that was behind me on the other side of the walkway. Above that men’s room door it said, “White Only”. I opened the door and looked in. It had fresh paint on the walls and appeared to be very clean. The other bathroom was dirty and in a state of disrepair.

I felt a little wave of nausea come over me. So, is this what racial discrimination looks like? Is this for real? They can’t do that, can they? I decided not to use either restroom and walked on to the restaurant. I did not share this experience my parents. As is my way, even to this day, I withdraw when something really bothers me.

Over the last 46 years, I’ve thought of this incident many times. I remember this as a day that I lost a large piece of my childhood innocence. From that day forward, I began to notice the ugly things in life.

The evening news became something of interest to me. I became more aware of the struggle that blacks faced to gain equality. I became aware of the leaders in the civil rights movement. I was there in downtown Detroit that hot summer day in 1967 when the riots began. I saw how sorrow had turned to anger, anger had turned to rage, and the rage could no longer be contained.

I remember feeling admiration for those brave souls that marched in Selma. I remember feeling out rage when the police beat them to the ground, turned the dogs loose on them, and blasted them with fire hoses. I remembered feeling stunned and saddened when that church was bombed and four innocent little girls were killed. I couldn’t imagine hatred on a scale of that magnitude.

I remember being fascinated by the bravery of Rosa Parks. This was one gutsy little lady whose single refusal to submit fueled a movement that brought a major southern city to a standstill. Shortly before she died, she became my hero when I heard her being interviewed. The interviewer asked her, “What is it like to be a considered a champion of the civil rights movement here in America”? She laughed and in a small, frail voice said, “It really wasn’t like that. I had had a long hard day and was just too tired to get up and move to the back of the bus”. What awesome and rare humility!

As you are well aware, Barack Obama is running for President of the United States. As you are well aware, Barack Obama is black. In my mind, this makes it the most fascinating presidential election in American history.

I will probably not vote for Mr. Obama. Not because he is black, but simply because our politics just don’t align. Were he to join the NRA and show some sincere concern for the small business owner, I might be swayed in his direction. He wouldn’t even have to shoot a moose! I’m easy.

If Barack Obama should happen to win this election, all black parents could at last tell their children that, “This is America, you can become anything you want to become, even President of the United States”! And, they could point to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as proof.

Of all the things I like to do, target shooting and hunting are near the top of the list. Most of these activities I do with a friend that just happens to be black. Even though we spend a lot of time together, we don’t get into deep philosophical conversations about politics, religion, or race. We’re just a couple of old farts that enjoy each other’s company.

Coming home from a hunting trip last Saturday, with our usual bag limit of ….nothing, I asked him for some help with this story that you’re now reading. I told him when I was a boy; blacks were referred to as Negro or Colored. Now it’s either Afro-American, black, or Black. (No, that isn’t a typo.) “What is proper?” I asked him. He said, “I don’t know, it all depends on the situation or who is talking to whom about what”. I asked, “What do you prefer?” He said, “Why don’t you just call me Paul?”

Hey Paul, that works for me.

Here We Go Again!

It probably seems like I pick on GM a lot. It’s not because they’re the Big Dog or that I don’t like them. I’ve been a fan of GM since I was a toddler and I have agonized for them as their market share has slipped over the years to a historical new low.

During the late sixties and seventies, I drove Chevys and Pontiacs. During the eighties I drove nothing but Oldsmobiles. I currently drive a Cadillac STS and I don’t think I’ve ever driven a car that I liked as much as this one.

However, I do get frustrated with GM. I heard last month that Cadillac would be bringing out a four banger vehicle in 2010. I saw this as a knee-jerk reaction to the “gas crisis” and I was sure this turkey would never fly. But now, it looks like they may actually go ahead with it.

In today’s Automotive News, there was a great article by senior editor John K. Teahen, Jr., who is old and may even know more stuff than me. To sum up his article, he says, “Get real, GM. Nobody’s gonna buy it”! He reminds us of the Cimarron that Cadillac brought out in the early eighties. Jim suggests that they call it the Cimarron II.

You do remember the Cimarron don’t you? Oh, you don’t? That’s OK. It was quite forgettable. It was a previous knee-jerk reaction to the fuel-efficient imports that were flooding our shores. The Cimarron was basically a Chevy sub-compact with Cadillac stickers on it. I remember watching people’s reaction the first time they saw one. They would walk up to it, give it a quick glance, look at the window sticker, and laugh out loud. I was embarrassed for GM.

One thing I do know is that Cadillac has always been about “image”. Image sells and image needs to be protected. Lose it and it’s hard to get back.

I recently had dinner with a GM executive who I’ve known for about thirty years. I asked him about GM’s tenuous future. He told me, “Not to worry! We’ve got some great products in the pipeline and I’m feeling very optimistic about our future”! I smiled and said, “That is good news”.

I considered giving him the link to my blog, but I do value his friendship and besides his parting words were, “Hey John, when you’re ready for an ’09 STS, let me know and I’ll get you another executive plan discount”.

OK, So who am I to make trouble?

Totem Pole, Ted’s, and Crusin’ Woodward

Another Woodward Dream Cruise has just come and gone, and again it was a smashing success. There are now cruises all over the country, but none come close this one. I’ve heard estimates of between one and two million people that show up for this festive occasion.

That’s a whole lot of people. And, they come from all over the world to be a part of this spectacular automotive event. It’s the kind of event that you’d expect to take place in the Detroit area, the automotive capital of the world. Officially, it’s only for one weekend each year, and you can’t possibly see it all in that short amount of time.

Cruising Woodward is something that goes way back to the 1950’s and 60’s. My first experience was in 1962. I wasn’t yet old enough to get my drivers license, so I had to ride with other guys. My cousin Bob (R.L.) Utley took me out to Woodward in his 1960 Jaguar convertible.

We cruised through the Totem Pole and the Big Boy then headed north to Ted’s on Woodward at Square Lake Road. I was absolutely sure that I was the coolest dude in town and that all the girls were looking at me. They probably liked the car too.

At all of these drive-in restaurants there was a continual flow of Baby Boomers in hot rods and sports cars. On Woodward Avenue it was sorta like American Graffiti on steroids. The trick was to back into a parking spot where you could see and be seen. But, if you parked, you had to buy something. French fries and a Coke were the usual fare.

The next year I got my drivers license and going out to cruise Woodward became a regular activity on Friday and Saturday nights. If memory serves me correctly, and sometimes it does, my favorite place to park was at the Big Boy facing the street. There was a stoplight there and every time the light turned green a drag race occurred. Pretty girls, cool cars, loud music, greasy fries, watered down cokes, and screaming, smoking tires. Ah, those were the days!

Sometimes I get real melancholy when I think back to those glory days. But then I remember that I married Christine (my Woodward Avenue co-pilot) many years ago and life is still good. It’s especially good when my grandson Gabe tugs on my arm and says, “Papa, would you take me for a ride on your John Deere tractor”?

Well, it isn’t a tire burner, but it is kinda fun to ride and it will do the quarter mile in less than 6 minutes. “OK Gabe, let’s rock-n-roll”!

A Bit Long In The Tooth

My dad, Bob Utley, was a Marine during WWII. He fought in the South Pacific against the Japanese on Iwo Jima, Saipan, and Tinian. These were bloody battles fought under miserable conditions. As a Radioman in the 4th Marine Division he would relay coordinates directing the artillery crews where to fire their big guns. He was there when that band of brave souls from the 3rd Division fought their way to the top of Mount Suribachi to plant Old Glory.

“Once A Marine – Always A Marine!” is a phrase you’ve probably heard at least once in your life. In Dad’s case it was true. Along with that truism came a lot of military phrases such as, “Get the lead out!”, “Front and center!”, “Take all you can eat, but eat all you take!”. Since most of my friend’s dads were also veterans of the Big War, this kind of talk was common around the neighborhood when I was a kid.

When Dad was a kid he lived on a farm so he also had a few farm phrases that he used on occasion. My favorite was, “A Bit Long In The Tooth”. I understood it to be a way of describing an old horse. Since his generation wasn’t constrained by political correctness, he would usually direct this description to an aging member of the other gender. He would say something like, “Yes, she’s still good lookin, but she’s gettin to be a bit long in the tooth”.

This month marks the 100th birthday of General Motors. That may seem old, but as carmakers go, GM is still a youngster. There are other car companies still around that are as old as dirt. Oldsmobile had been around since 1890’s. Gottlieb Daimler and Wilhelm Maybach, founded Daimler Motoren Gesellschaft in 1890. Henry Ford built his first car back in 1896 and was selling to the public by 1903. The first combustion engine vehicles were being pioneered back in the 1860’s. There were even steam-powered cars dating back to the 1700’s.

So, even though she’s gettin to be a bit long in the tooth, turning 100 is no big deal in the auto world. But, we wish GM a Happy Birthday anyway and hope she makes it to 200.