Shelf Life — Scott Dickensheets: Hometown hero not among GQ’s Men of the Year

Friday, Nov. 5, 1999 | 11:40 a.m.

Scott Dickensheets' books and magazines column appears Fridays. Reach him at 990-2446 or dickens@vegas.com.

What, no Agassi?

I hold in my hands the November issue of GQ, the magazine's richly hyped Men of the Year edition -- you know, the one heralded by the VH1 concert and awards ceremony and oodles of self-congratulatory ooze -- and right here, in the expansive MOTY package, under the category "Individual Athlete," is a photo and tepid blurb celebrating ... Oscar de la Hoya?

I ask again: No Agassi?

No doubt de la Hoya had a fine 1999; losing a squeaker to Felix Trinidad would certainly be the mark of a great year in my life, and yours, too. But it's hard to see how he topped hometown boy Agassi. Agassi made history at the French Open, becoming the first man in decades to win all four Grand Slam tennis titles in his career -- not even hairy-chested yogurt salesman Pete Sampras has done it.

Then, putting together a string of hot wins and close calls, including runner-up at Wimbledon and culminating with the 1999 U.S. Open title, Agassi completed a rise from triple-figure ranking to No. 1 in the world. I don't think it consigns me to mindless hometown boosterism to contend that Agassi had more of a Men of the Year year than de la Hoya.

Why, I have half a mind to ring up GQ and demand some explanation. But that's the half I never listen to; the rest of my mind tells me to let it go -- this is, after all, just a gimmicky, high-concept, ad-friendly project, common in modern magazines, fun yet undemanding comfort food.

Others joining de la Hoya in GQ's limelight include Tom Hanks (film actor), computer merchandiser Michael Dell (business), the Beastie Boys (band), Kevin Spacey (theater), Mark McGwire (team athlete), Eric Clapton (solo artist), Steven Spielberg (film director), Will Smith (most stylish man), Tom Wolfe (literature), and others. As you can see, most are safe, bordering-on-conservative selections. I mean, Eric Clapton?

OK, OK, enough of that. There are 500 pages in this issue, and the question naturally arises, How many are worth reading? Quite a few, it turns out. The highlights include Adam Sach's stylish, offbeat piece on the post-death life of Jim Morrison, particularly as regards his gravesite in Paris. It is, as you can imagine, a grungy shrine to haunted Lizard King acolytes and sacred ground for professional Jim Morrison torch-carriers such as former Doors bandmate Ray Manzarek and lurid biographer Danny Sugarman ("No One Here Gets Out Alive").

Sachs ably sifts through the conflicting rumors about the imminent disposition of Morrison's remains (the lease on the burial site supposedly expires in a few years), seeming to settle for good the question about whether Morrison -- if he's really dead! -- will be relocated.

Reporting on Hollywood's latest hot potato from the unlikely dateline of Highlands, N.J., John Brodie visits director Kevin Smith ("Clerks," "Chasing Amy"). His latest film, "Dogma," stars Ben Affleck and Matt Damon as exiled angels trying to wiggle back into heaven through a loophole in divine law. It also features Chris Rock as the 13th disciple, Rufus, left out of the Gospels because he was black, and Linda Fiorentino as an abortion-clinic worker descended from Christ. Oh, and a demon made of poop.

Sounds at least mildly blasphemous, and the ever-ready-to-pounce Catholic League has already denounced it -- without seeing it, of course, and after declining to meet with Smith.

The funny thing -- aside from Alanis Morissette as the voice of God (isn't it ironic?) -- is that, according to Brodie's account, "the Catholic League has picked the wrong target." "Dogma" is the sincere if whacked-out result of one believer's struggles with faith, "an attempt to graft flesh -- warts and all -- onto abstract entities such as apostles, prophets, angels, God and Christ." Well, you can't have that, and so this film will be accompanied by much handwringing and opportunistic denunciation. Now that's entertainment.

The good stuff continues with Jack Hitt's tour of a freak museum; Robert Draper's report on Nobel laureate Carleton Gajdusek's prize-winning medical work and unsavory attraction to children; Sarah Vowell's fun take on the merchandising of art souvenirs (a Duchamp coffee mug! A Cezanne beanie baby!), and much more.

It is, all told, another inside-the-park home run for GQ -- not quite over the fence, but still a solid score, and, at $3.50, the week's best reading value.

Footnotes