family

Alex Honnold gets paid $500,000 for not falling to his death …

Just when you thought The Running Man would never become real television–because watching hunters murder human game show contestants might be unseemly–Netflix screams, “Not so fast!”

Now, the streaming giant didn’t greenlight a dystopian, murderous gameshow that, if you added snow, might resemble present-day Minneapolis, but it managed to pay Alex Honnold, a professional mountain climber, $500,000 to scale a tall tower in Taipei.

The catch: Honnold won’t wear any climbing or safety gear. He falls, he dies.

And, boy, did people watch, with 6.2 million views of “Skyscraper Live.” I wasn’t one of them. I find it ghoulish watching what is ostensibly entertainment, knowing full well the star entertainer might plummet 1,667 feet to his death. Netflix had the dignity to put a 10-second delay on the program in case that happened.

Can you imagine if it did? Now, I’m thrilled it didn’t. But I envision Alex somewhere on the tower, and then all of a sudden, you cut to an image reading, “Technical Difficulties.” They would not have broadcast Alex falling and then cut away before the splat. Netflix is classy that way.

First, if you don’t know who Alex Honnold is, watch Free Solo immediately. It documents how Honnold climbed the 3,000-foot-tall El Capitan at Yosemite National Park in 2018 without a rope. Or anything. It was him, some sturdy shoes, and a bag of chalk for his hands.

Second, Alex Honnold, 40, is a lunatic. He’s mentally sound in almost every way, except that this married father with two kids climbs tall things for a living without anything to prevent him from dying should he fall. It’s called Free Soloing. And climbers absolutely have died in this manner.

If you think you’ve ever had a bad day at the office, like, some typos wound up in your boss’s PowerPoint presentation, just imagine what Alex’s bad day might look like. You’d need a human-sized spatula.

Alex Honnold is the best at what he does, no doubt. He’s freakishly strong and controls fear in ways I cannot comprehend. But all it takes is one crumbling rock, one spooked bird darting from a mountain crevice, and that’s the ball game. I imagine his life insurance policy has some hefty premiums, and his family will be well compensated should the unthinkable happen. But to inflict that on your children and wife strikes me as cruel. Just hang it up, man. Or wear ropes! It’s no longer all about you.

There was a minor kerfuffle over Honnold receiving “only” $500,000 to scale that tower. This is silly. Nobody forced Honnold to accept half a million dollars in exchange for the possibility of him splattering on the pavement. Maybe hire Scott Boras, of baseball agenting fame, to represent you. He’ll net you a fortune.

But this presents the ghoulish prospect of a bidding war to get Honnold to climb something else incredibly tall and dangerous to entertain the masses. Chances are, that’s already in the works because of Honnold’s success in Taipei, and because there’s an audience for it. But I’m not in it. For the sake of decency, I hope I’m not the only one.

Meeting the mob crew (an inspiration) …

Goodfellas is almost out of my system, but I couldn’t resist the following, based on this scene and after reading Nicholas Pileggi’s Wise Guy:

We were wise guys, yes, but gods among men otherwise. It all started when I met Jimmy “The Irishman” O’Houlihan, one of the best hijackers in Queens, who took me under his wing when I was a kid.

“You ever rat me out and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear,” Jimmy told me when he shook my 10-year-old hand. “Now, drive that semi-truck of stolen cigarettes to Sheepshead Bay so we can unload them.”

“I can’t drive,” I said. “My feet don’t even reach the brakes.”

“Fuckin’ mutt,” Jimmy said in the most endearing way possible. “Let me find some blocks to tie to the brake and gas pedals.”

That’s how it started. A 10-year-old boy steering a multi-ton death machine across the city. Jimmy would’ve been so proud of me had a rival crew not hijacked me and stolen the cigarettes.

Jimmy found out who did it, whacked ’em, and recovered the cigarettes.

“Next time I’ll give you a gun,” Jimmy said. “Now, go inside and watch Sesame Street.”

I was the toughest kid in the mob daycare center. The other kids’ parents gave them extra lunch money so they could buy something to eat after I shook them down. I always kicked some dough back up to Jimmy. The other families knew who I was with and never said a word.

I made book on who’d win the spelling bee, and would beat up anyone who wouldn’t misspell ‘dog’ when I told them to. I organized Uno games, and God help the kid who tried marking the Wild cards. The daycare administrator once asked Joe “The Piano Player” Moscone why all ten of his fingers were broken. He kept his mouth shut and never played Bach the same way again.

Our Monopoly games involved real money. I forced the players to pay protection on their houses and hotels. And if they didn’t, they’d get melted green and red blobs on Boardwalk and Park Place. Anyone who went directly to jail got a black eye for being sloppy.

But those were the guys I grew up with. When we became old enough to drink, which was 18 back then, we met at Paul “the Arsonist” Giglione’s new pub after his old one burned down.

There was Frankie “the Wop” Bugliati, Vinny “the Daigo” Vincense, and Bobby “the Dignified Italian” Pucinni who despised Frankie’s and Vinny’s nicknames.

Tommy “the Snitch” Genovese was a regular until recently. I have no idea why he suddenly disappeared.

Haruki “The Blowfish Poisoner” Ishigawa sought to establish the Yakuza in Queens, but he was the only Japanese gangster in town, so he hung with us. Marco “the Insult Master” Francesa once called Ishigawa “the nipster.” I thought it was kinda lazy, but Ishi took it in stride, chuckled, and asked Marco if he’d ever tried fugu and if he would like to. I’m not sure if Marco enjoyed it. I haven’t had the chance to ask him because he’s been in the hospital for six months.

I don’t think I ever paid for a drink in my life. Paul “Pope Beneficent” Gagliardi took care of me. I always made it a point to go to church for him. Then I’d meet my mistress right afterward at the track.

Nobody ever walked up behind Billy “the Paranoid Schizophrenic” Batty when he was sitting at the bar. The last guy who tapped him on the shoulder ended up with his face chewed off while Billy screamed in between chomps, “The voices! Why are the bunny rabbits so loud!” Yeah, we avoided Billy at all costs.

We always busted “Fat” Andy Ciccio’s balls because he was morbidly obese and practically sweated butter. Then he went and lost 300 pounds, and we started calling him Andy “the Bulimic who Ruined His Teeth” Ciccio. I liked “Fat” Andy better.

We ate chicken parmesan until buttons popped off our shirts and teased the old-school capo Vito “the Wordsmith” Bossonaro, who sipped anisette while doing his crossword puzzle. His days of pounding whiskey ended when he broke too many wooden barrels. We bought him a punching bag soon after.

It was the mafia’s golden age, before the bad times, before mob boss Anthony “the Neocon” Porchetta started a war against the Toscano Crime Family because its boss, Luciano, didn’t pay his Monopoly protection money to me on time. The thing is, he did. I was hungover and forgot to give it to Anthony.

Hey, wait, you’re not recording any of this, are you?

They killed Gramma! (The tortoise)

Facebook feeds offer up some of the most random tidbits. For instance, this morning it notified me that Gramma, the 141-year-old Galapagos Tortoise, died in San Diego. Turns out it happened in November. What struck me was one of the lines regarding her demise: “Her loss has been felt around the world.”

Hold your horses. Kennedy’s assassination was felt around the world. More recently, putting politics aside, Charlie Kirk’s murder was felt across the globe. When Princess Di was killed in that car crash? Absolutely felt around the planet.

Do you remember where you were when you learned Gramma the Tortoise died? Yeah, right here, right now, reading this. So, I did some investigating and here’s what I learned.

Gramma’s exact date of birth is unknown, but “experts” estimated her age at roughly 140 years old, meaning she was born around 1885. Do you know who the US president was in 1885? Neither do I, let me Google it. OK, Grover Cleveland. The San Diego Zoo, where she lived since 1928, stated she lived through 20 US presidents! She lived through two World Wars. A bunch of pandemics. Disco. Pretty much everything good and bad in modern US history.

Yeah, but Gramma doesn’t know any of this. She’s a tortoise. Last I checked, they don’t think about world affairs or domestic politics. They think about “where the hell is my fruit bowl?” and “I haven’t left my enclosure in 75 years.”

Here’s how ABC News reported on her: “Throughout her time in San Diego, Gramma, a ‘quiet and constant presence,’ transformed from a black-and-white photograph to an ‘ever-endearing social media star,’ with countless videos shared of the reptile crunching on her favorite snacks, the zoo said.”

That’s sobering. A dead tortoise has more followers on Twitter than I do.

I’d like to wrap up this story as a bittersweet yet feel-good one. But I can’t because of what the Los Angeles Times reported: Gramma “was euthanized after suffering from increasing bone deterioration because of her advanced age.”

They murdered Gramma! Who the hell made the San Diego Zoo god? Aren’t you supposed to respect your elders? And not put them down because you think it’s time for them to die? Apparently, and unsurprisingly, not in California. “Hey, Gramma, you’re moving slower than normal. Let’s get that lethal drug cocktail ready!”

Gramma had absolutely no say in the matter. A bunch of goons probably lifted her up, and Gramma’s thinking, “Yay, they’re taking me inside! That’s where they keep the cactus fruit that I enjoy nibbling on. Hey, wait a second, why does everybody look so glum? And I don’t see any cactus fruit, just a bunch of bottles with skulls and crossbones on them! And a guy flicking his finger against a syringe! What the hell is this?”

Gramma’s dead. Probably against her will, but at least they didn’t strap her into a chair and electrocute her. May her memory be a blessing. And if you’re elderly and live in the San Diego Zoo, try not to stumble.