Men and Women Behaving Badly
It was with perverse pleasure that I learned over the weekend that Rick “Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?” Rockwell is a cad.
I spent the better part of last week in shock that any woman in this day and age would strut her swimsuited stuff in front of 23 million television viewers to vie for the fancy of a man. It’s bad enough that the Miss America pageant has a swimsuit competition, but at least the winner gets college scholarship money out of the deal.
The smug Rockwell, whom the Fox special presented as the perfect male specimen and ultimate hubby material, got his comeuppance: Web site The SmokingGun.com reported that his ex-fiancee, Debbie Goyne of Redondo Beach, obtained a restraining order against the TV groom in 1991. (She claimed he became violent after she broke off their relationship; he has denied the charges.)
In one hour, “Who Wants to Marry a Multi-Millionaire?” managed to sully both genders.
The only happy ending that could come out of this cracked fairy tale would be the end of “social experiment” TV. But that’s not likely, and chances are next Sweeps Week we’ll all be tuning in to see some schmuck try to clone himself.
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Speaking of cads, John Wayne Bobbitt is the newest attraction in the alterno-circus known as the Jim Rose Sideshow. He will join the troupe’s upcoming European tour next month in France.
Bobbitt’s spokesman, Robert Yates, told Wireless Flash that his client will not be exposing showgoers to the body part that made him infamous. Instead, he will perform comedy, magic tricks and a few “Houdini-like escape acts.”
Yates said he predicts the tour will revamp Bobbitt’s image. Perhaps there is room under the big top for Mr. and Mrs. Rick Rockwell.
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As I stood on a flooded street corner outside my Hollywood apartment building watching a trash can and a Saab float by, the petty worries I’d had about whether the rain would rot the IKEA wicker chairs on my balcony were drowned out by more serious concerns: Does the Swedish superstore make an ark?
When Adam and I moved into the building two months ago, the manager’s mention of “a flood plane” didn’t strike much of a chord. We should have paid more attention.
Luckily, when Monday’s rains hit, my car was parked safely a few blocks away. Adam’s car was trapped in the garage, protected (we hoped) from the rising waters by an impressive-looking floodgate.
Open-mouthed, we watched the firefighters in hip waders slogging through nearly 4 feet of water unclogging storm drains before fleeing the scene to do what people in L.A. do in times of trouble: pamper ourselves. We set out in search of a manicure and a haircut.
We’ve been in Los Angeles for only three years, and we’re already disaster veterans. Adam lost his ’88 VW last year, when our garage was destroyed in a blaze rumored to have been started by a deranged fan of our neighbor Angelyne.
He used the opportunity to trade up to a ’97 Geo Prizm, and who knows, maybe the flood would get him something even nicer--a Passat, perhaps?
“And if I lose my next car to locusts,” he said, “I’ll know I’m the chosen one.”
Booth Moore can be reached at booth.moore@latimes.com.
