Michael Rapaport: My Inexplicable {Celebrity Crush} on the Gringo Mandingo

I want to be clear before we even start. Most of this piece might sound like an indictment of Michael Rapaport, the self-proclaimed Gringo Mandingo. I am about to rattle off what may seem like an unwarranted string of insults. But you have to believe me: My goal isn’t to hurt feelings, be a dick, or cut someone down. I’m only trying to explain the unexplainable. To explic the inexplicable. To describe the indescribable mystery that is my crush on Michael Rapaport.

To begin, take a look at my more traditional celebrity crushes, men who are indisputable standard-bearers of human perfection:

If I could decorate a high school locker, this is what it would look like.

Pharrell. Michael B. Jordan. Gael García Bernal. Daniel Sunjata. Blake Griffin. And no man or woman, in the history of humankind, has ever been better looking than Cristiano Ronaldo. That’s just the truth.

As is the fact that I go for ageless, svelte dudes with perfect brown skin. But then, I challenge you, reader.

How do you even describe the worldwide phenomenon that is Michael Rapaport?

Yes, that Michael Rapaport. The caustic, shit-talking New Yorker. The tall guy with the mouth. Rewind to the 90s and he had roles in practically everything—he’s Remy from Higher Learning, Phoebe’s boyfriend Gary in Friends, and held it down in supporting roles in iconic movies you forgot about like True Romance, Copland, Beautiful Girls, and Poetic Justice. You don’t just know Michael Rapaport. I can guarantee you definitely have an opinion on him, too.

And you’re entitled to your own, but my opinion is that Michael Rapaport is really fucking hot.

No, I get it. I totally understand your confusion. Trust me, I’m right there with you. He’s not classically handsome like that list of flawless human males I rattled off just to prove I have eyes and discerning taste. I’m fully aware that this is an unconventional choice. He may not be the consummate stickman, but Mike Rap could get it.

Let’s break it down.

The Looks

Sure, he’s got kind of a Duh Face™. His eyes are beady and close together, his lips are peach and shapeless, and his nose is out there doing its thing. He doesn’t have a strong jawline or a glowing smile or youthful dimples. You can’t even really see his eyebrows, to be honest. It’s as if his face is just a collection of monochromatic white guy shapes.

But I like it on him. If you have to have a Duh Face™, this is the one to have. Rapachicks are you with me? Or am I all alone in here?

The Body

His body doesn’t help the case much. There was a time in the mid-90s when he was tall and lean—partly sunny with a chance of hardbody karate—but we’re about two decades late for that conversation. What we have now is a regular 45 year-old man who enjoys exercise and pizza in equal amounts. Like, it’s not bad, but it’s not good.

The Hair

Is his hair dirty blonde? Strawberry blonde? Unremarkable brown?

I don’t know, and frankly, it’s irrelevant. He’s got a cloudy tuft just chilling atop his dome with no specific shape or style or purpose. But ladies and gentlemen, do we really need a dude’s hair to be a thoughtful monument to his personhood or some kind of statement piece? I’m just glad he has hair. That’s not even a knock on bald dudes. It’s just that when Mike Rap doesn’t have hair, baaaad shit tends to happen.

Sit down, Remy. No one needs that Alt-right neo-Nazi white supremacist bullshit right now.

The Truth

So with all this working against him, why do I blush when I listen to the I Am Rapaport podcast, which I do, religiously, like it’s some kind of symphonic masterpiece? Why do I look forward to every “Sick Fuck of the Week” segment, every screaming Danny Aiello impression, every angry rant against Kanye and LeBron and Donald Trump and skinny-jeans hip hop?

You guys, why do I have such a ridiculous crush on Michael Rapaport?

The answer, surprisingly enough, is Shakespearean. Yes, that Shakespeare, who used jesters or fools in his finest works as a literary device intended to bring humor to otherwise serious or grave situations. You know, like when the state of hip hop is in rapid decline. Or when the President-elect is a budding fascist/internet troll.

In desperate times, sometimes you need someone to make you laugh. To survive.

And excuse you, but this is William Shakespeare. So of course he didn’t just use jesters for comic relief. Instead, Willy Shakes turned your preconceptions inside out, making his fools into complex characters, who were never taken seriously enough to be believed, but who held the truth in their juggling hands the whole time.

They tried to tell you. They tried to warn you. But you didn’t listen.

So, yeah, I love Michael Rapaport. Because even though he doesn’t fact-check, he’s still the truth. As Isaac Asimov broke it down so neatly, “That, of course, is the great secret of the successful fool—that he is no fool at all.”