The Execution of Michael Moore
I'm thinking about killing Michael Moore, and I'm wondering if I could kill him myself, or if I would need to hire somebody to do it . . . No, I think I could. I think he could be looking me in the eye, you know, and I could just be choking the life out [of him]. Is this wrong? I stopped wearing my "What Would Jesus Do?" band, and I've lost all sense of right and wrong now. I used to be able to say, "Yeah, I'd kill Michael Moore," and then I'd see the little band: What Would Jesus Do? And then I'd realize, "Oh, you wouldn't kill Michael Moore. Or at least you wouldn't choke him to death." And you know, well, I'm not sure.
live on the Glenn Beck program,
May 17, 2005
Wishes for my early demise seemed to be everywhere. They were certainly on the mind of CNN's Bill Hemmer one sunny July morning in 2004. He had heard something he wanted to run by me. And so, holding a microphone in front of my face on the floor of the 2004 Democratic National Convention, live on CNN, he asked me what I thought about how the American people were feeling about Michael Moore:
"I've heard people say they wish Michael Moore were dead."
I tried to recall if I'd ever heard a journalist ask anyone that question before on live television. Dan Rather did not ask Saddam Hussein that question. I'm pretty sure Stone Phillips didn't ask serial killer and cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer, either. Perhaps, maybe, Larry King asked Liza once — but I don't think so.
For some reason, though, it was perfectly OK to pose that possibility to me, a guy whose main offense was to make documentaries. Hemmer said it like he was simply stating the obvious, like, "of course they want to kill you!" He just assumed his audience already understood this truism, as surely as they accept that the sun rises in the east and corn comes on a cob.
I didn't know how to respond. I tried to make light of it. But as I stood there I couldn't get over what he had just said live on a network that goes out to 120 countries and Utah. This "journalist" had possibly planted a sick idea into some deranged mind, some angry dittohead sitting at home microwaving his doughnut-and-bacon cheeseburger while his kitchen TV (one of five in the house) is accidentally on CNN: "Well, more chilly weather today across the Ohio Valley, a cat in Philadelphia rolls its own sushi, and coming up, there are people who want Michael Moore dead!"
Hemmer wasn't finished with his dose of derision. He wanted to know who gave me these credentials to be here. "The DNC [Democratic National Committee] did not invite you here, is that right?" Hemmer asked, as if he were some cop checking ID, something I'm sure he would ask no one else attending the convention that week.
"No," I said, "the Congressional Black Caucus invited me here." My anger was building, so I added, for effect, "Those black congressmen, you know." The interview ended.
Over the next few minutes, off air, I just stood there and glared at him as other reporters asked me questions. Hemmer went over to be interviewed by some blogger. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I walked back up to him and said, with Dirty Harry calm, "That is absolutely the most despicable thing ever said to me on live television."
He told me not to interrupt him and to wait until he was done talking to the blogger. Sure, punk, I can wait.
And then, when I wasn't looking, he slipped away. But there would be nowhere for him to hide! He took refuge inside the Arkansas delegation — the refuge of all scoundrels! — but I found him, and I got right up in his face.
"You made my death seem acceptable," I said. "You just told someone it was OK to kill me."
He tried to back away, but I blocked him in. "I want you to think about your actions if anything ever happens to me. Don't think my family won't come after you, because they will." He mumbled something about his right to ask me anything he wanted, and I decided it wasn't worth breaking my lifelong record of never striking another human, certainly not some weasel from cable news (Save it for Meet the Press, Mike!). Hemmer broke loose and got away. Within the year he would leave CNN and move to Fox News, where he should have been in the first place.
To be fair to Mr. Hemmer, I was not unaware that my movies had made a lot of people mad. It was not unusual for fans to randomly come up and hug me and say, "I'm so happy you're still here! " They didn't mean in the building.
Why was I still alive? For over a year there had been threats, intimidation, harassment, and even assaults in broad daylight. It was the first year of the Iraq War, and I was told by a top security expert (who is often used by the federal government for assassination prevention) that "there is no one in America other than President Bush who is in more danger than you."
How on earth did this happen? Had I brought this on myself? Of course I did. And I remember the moment it all began.
It was the night of March 23, 2003. Four nights earlier, George W. Bush had invaded Iraq, a sovereign country that not only had not attacked us, but was, in fact, the past recipient of military aid from the United States. This was an illegal, immoral, stupid invasion — but that was not how Americans saw it. Over 70 percent of the public backed the war, including liberals like Al Franken and the twenty-nine Democratic senators who voted for the war authorization act (among them Senators Chuck Schumer, Dianne Feinstein, and John Kerry). Other liberal war cheerleaders included New York Times columnist and editor Bill Keller and the editor of the liberal magazine the New Yorker, David Remnick. Even liberals like Nicholas Kristof of the Times hopped on the bandwagon pushing the lie that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. Kristof praised Bush and Secretary of State Colin Powell for "adroitly" proving that Iraq had WMDs. He wrote this after Powell presented phony evidence to the United Nations. The Times ran many bogus front-page stories about how Saddam Hussein had these weapons of mass destruction. They later apologized for their drumbeating this war into existence. But the damage had been done. The New York Times had given Bush the cover he needed and the ability to claim, heck, if a liberal paper like the Times says so, it must be true!
And now, here it was, the fourth night of a very popular war, and my film, Bowling for Columbine, was up for the Academy Award. I went to the ceremony but was not allowed, along with any of the nominees, to talk to the press while walking down the red carpet into Hollywood's Kodak Theatre. There was the fear that someone might say something — and in wartime we need everyone behind the war effort and on the same page.
The actress Diane Lane came on to the Oscar stage and read the list of nominees for Best Documentary. The envelope was opened, and she announced with unbridled glee that I had won the Oscar. The main floor, filled with the Oscar–nominated actors, directors, and writers, leapt to its feet and gave me a very long standing ovation. I had asked the nominees from the other documentary films to join me on the stage in case I won, and they did. The ovation finally ended, and then I spoke:
I've invited my fellow documentary nominees on the stage with us. They are here in solidarity with me because we like nonfiction. We like nonfiction, yet we live in fictitious times. We live in a time where we have fictitious election results that elect a fictitious president. We live in a time where we have a man sending us to war for fictitious reasons. Whether it's the fiction of duct tape or the fiction of orange alerts: we are against this war, Mr. Bush. Shame on you, Mr. Bush. Shame on you! And anytime you've got the Pope and the Dixie Chicks against you, your time is up! Thank you very much.
About halfway through these remarks, all hell broke loose. There were boos, very loud boos, from the upper floors and from backstage. (A few — Martin Scorsese, Meryl Streep — tried to cheer me on from their seats, but they were no match.) The producer of the show, Gil Cates, ordered the orchestra to start playing to drown me out. The microphone started to descend into the floor. A giant screen with huge red letters began flashing in front me: "YOUR TIME IS UP!" It was pandemonium, to say the least, and I was whisked off the stage.
A little known fact: the first two words every Oscar winner hears right after you win the Oscar and leave the stage come from two attractive young people in evening wear hired by the Academy to immediately greet you behind the curtain.
So while calamity and chaos raged on in the Kodak, this young woman in her designer gown stood there, unaware of the danger she was in, and said the following word to me:
And she held out a flute of champagne.
The young man in his smart tuxedo standing next to her then immediately followed up with this: "Breathmint?"
And he held out a breathmint.
Champagne and breathmint are the first two words all Oscar winners hear.
This is an excerpt from Here Comes Trouble by Michael Moore. Copyright 2011 by Michael Moore. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.