YADDA-YADDA. I admit it. I never got the whole Seinfeld thing. Part of it was a pre-existing loathing for the star. Back when the late Sam Kinison was prowling the stages and scaring people (Jesus: "Sure, I'll go back, even if I'm the only guy in history who can use his hand for a whistle!") it was Jerry whom the culture warriors brought out to soothe their maidenly vapors. Jerry would talk about how he never worked blue and then yap about breakfast cereals. Different strokes and all, I agree, but I never shook the feeling that Seinfeld was on the other side from all the real stuff.
Anyway, I watched his show long enough to realize that there was an awful lot of overdog bullying going on at the heart of the phenomenon -- vaguely racist and xenophobic, with a mysterious sweet-tooth for Funny Cripple humor. We're losers, but the world is full of bigger losers, and a lot of them look different. Ho, ho. So, when Michael Richards went off the other night (inevitable YouTube footage here), immolating himself and coming damn close to getting his resolutely unfunny ass kicked on stage and on camera, what I saw was the unleashed Id of the authentic television landmark of which Richards was a part. Yadda-yadda, indeed.
--Charles P. Pierce
