Pardon me if I have trouble taking The Hulk seriously. It has nothing to do with film snobbery. When it’s on HBO, I’m sure I’ll watch it and enjoy it for what it is, just as I enjoyed Spiderman. But because that darling of film buffs, Ang Lee, directed The Hulk, they feel it necessary to see the film as more than just a comic-book adventure. All of a sudden, The Hulk is a parable for our times.
Uncle Nunzi thinks the Hulk character looks like Jose Canseco on an overdose of steroids. If the Hulk were real, Uncle believes he’d probably be playing major-league baseball and breaking Barry Bonds’ home-run record.
I have something in common with the Hulk. His anger turns him into a giant muscle machine the color of split-pea soup. My anger just makes my lip swell. As I write this column, my upper lip and the left side of my face are swollen to massive proportions. Right now I am too ugly — without makeup — to play the Elephant Man. I think I got this way because of the stress in dealing with the nursing home that is supposed to care for my mother.
As far as I can tell, this is where my resemblance to the Hulk ends. At least he is able to use his giant muscles to rid mankind of evil villains. What can I do with a face and lip swollen to the size of a basketball except maybe scare the nursing home into doing a better job?
The problem with my lip has caused me a great deal of embarrassment in a life that often seems dedicated to the principle that humility is my most endearing virtue. You see, I can never tell when my lip will suddenly take over my face. It all starts with the slightest tingle, and if I can’t get my hands on some antihistamine within a half hour, I look like Tex Cobb in a post-fight interview.
One time this happened to me right after I did a Monday night Eagles pre-game show at a place on Columbus Boulevard. I was snacking on some chicken wings after the broadcast when some of the hot sauce hit my lip, and the next thing I knew, my lip had been transformed into the Hindenburg.
That wasn’t bad enough. I had to travel to the old Philly Rock sports bar to meet Bill Bergey to do a post-game show. Through swollen lips, I told an astonished Bergey that I thought I’d be able to do the show. It was very dark in the bar and I figured I could slide by unnoticed.
Unfortunately for me, this was the night Fox News picked to do a feature on Bergey. During the broadcast, I desperately tried to hide my giant lip from the prying eye of the camera. You’ve heard the saying, "He has a face for radio?" Never was it more appropriate. I should have just identified myself as Lon Chaney and been done with it. Needless to say, Fox has never been back to film us again.
At least the Hulk is able to leap gracefully over city traffic. My swollen lip has no practical value whatsoever. When Dr. Jekyl turned into Mr. Hyde, he became a beast on the prowl; I, on the other hand, remain a rather mild-mannered gent with an enormous lip.
Uncle Nunzi feels that I should take advantage of my big lip and learn to play the trumpet. He has a point. At least if I played the trumpet, my feelings wouldn’t get hurt when someone remarks, "He has a helluva lip."
I went almost two years before my most recent attack left me with a big lip. We were supposed to dine with friends that night. How convincing was I on the phone telling them I couldn’t make it because of a swollen lip? How lame is that? Maybe I should have had my wife snap a Polaroid of what I looked like at that moment.
But let’s face it, there are certain maladies that don’t invite sympathy. Hemorrhoids come to mind. How much sympathy does a guy with hemorrhoids get? You tell a friend that your hemorrhoids are hurting and after some fleeting gesture of sympathy comes a joke centering on rear ends. It’s the same way with a huge lip. Right after they ask if it hurts, they start with the lip jokes. It’s all about paying lip service, if you ask me.
Before I became afflicted in this way, my kids used to tease me that I had no lips. It is true that even with what I call my sexy overbite, normally I do not have much in the way of lips. The first time the kids saw me after one of my allergic attacks, they both chimed in with, "At least now he has a lip."
Time for another Benadryl. In the meantime, I’ll try to grin and bear it. Or, if you prefer, I’ll keep a stiff upper lip.
