There's isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish that Mr. T was there to guide me?when I’m confronted with one of life?s problems??But here I am, nailed to the brittle cross of adulthood left screaming to the heavens, ?Mr. T, Mr. T, why have you forsaken me?? ?Because Mr. T was once there to aid me as well as others in our youth with the myriad of troubles we encountered.
In 1985 a book series was published called Mr. T and Me that chronicled the A-Team star?s teachings, healings and miracles that he bestowed upon the children of the world. The timeless evils of boom box theft, sidewalk mocking and the dreaded “muscle tussle” were all dispelled by Mr. T?s deft jewelry encrusted hand. They were also, as evidenced by the books, dispelled in the most bizarre and disturbing fashion possible.
1985 saw Mr. T ascend to the level of a gold rope swathed, mohawk adorned, undisputed master over all media. Mr. T was essentially the Bob Dylan of the 80?s, a true iconoclast that owned his respective decade. Of course Dylan owned the 60?s and T the 80?s, which is like comparing owning the 60?s Jaguar XKE to the 80?s DeLorean DMC-12. Sure, they were both spiff back in their day but stepping out of the gull wing doors of Marty McFly?s ride nowadays will not in any way get you laid. Whereas the Jag probably still will.
And like the DeLorean, Mr. T is now sadly resigned to mere kitsch relic at best. The rise of T and his good-natured but poorly executed attempts at being a role model were brought to frothy percolation in 1985 with the publication of the Mr. T and Me series. But the true emergence of T as a role model, nay his canonization into middle American culture, was when he let then First Lady Nancy Reagan give him a lap dance while he dressed as Santa Claus.
Somehow this set White America, and Ronald Reagan at ease. Maybe the Gipper thought it?d scare the Russians, who knows. All we do know is that Mr. T was now the last bastion of conservative American values, traditional values inexplicably embodied in the form of giant black man dressed like an Indian space pirate from a future where sleeved shirt had been abolished. He looked kind of like the Village People if they had formed like Voltron and all become a swarthy macho mess. And we needed that macho mess. Case in point this PSA from Mr. T on “Recouping”:
There are many amazing stories told in the Mr. T and Me book series but none are more compelling than The Tackle Block Stop.
In it Mr. T attempts to comfort and coach a young boy who has been inappropriately touched by another adult.
Talk about a touchy subject. Whoa. Sorry, actually didn’t intend that pun but am leaving it as further proof of how hard it is to broach this subject. Turns out?Mr. T and Me?was on to something, it is hard tackling this sort of thing. Anyways, it sounds like Mr. T is handling this fine, right? Wrong. For some reason Mr. T does all his coaching of the boy while wearing the shortest short shorts possible . He also does so while ?managing to contort his and the poor boy’s body into terrible suggestive positions.
But I, like all true believers, have no doubt that T meant well. Here?s an example of his advice to the boy:
‘Mr. T scowled down to me. ?It don't matter who he is,? he said. ?When it feels wrong it ain't right! Don't let nobody mess with your body.? ‘
I have been living my entire life off this and many more of the master?s mantras ever since I first read them. And that's why this book series, though spiritually fulfilling, is also rather bittersweet. Because now as adults there is no baby blue track suited angel around to show us what does and doesn't feel wrong with our bodies. And I for one could use a little outside advice.
So I propose a new series of Mr. T and Me books for adult readers. A new testament to guide us with our new problems, and some of our old (I have stolen 3 boom boxes since beginning this article). But until that fateful day when the new books arrive we?ll have to carry on without. We?ll have to figure out how to ?tackle block stop? on our own without the warm bark of our hero?s booming voice behind our ear. Wherever you are Mr. T, I hope you pity us fools.