Chynna Phillips

Source: Bigstock

Ah, my annual Christmas column, where I get to write about anything that tickles my fancy.

So about the New Avengers “Angels of Death” episode…

Okay, okay, sorry. I’ve run that joke into the ground enough for one lifetime.

But here’s a story I don’t think I’ve ever shared…the time I saved Chynna Phillips’ life.

You know Chynna Phillips, right? “Daughter of the Mamas & the Papas band members John and Michelle Phillips.” That’s how Wikipedia phrases it. Me, I’d have said “Daughter of Incesty McFukkindaughter and the thin one who didn’t choke on a ham sandwich.”

But that’s just me. I’m a charmer.

As my regular readers know and are sick of hearing about, I went to majority black L.A. public schools in the early 1980s during the peak of the crack epidemic. And I loved it. I have nothing but great memories from those years.

I get so much pushback from readers about that. “There’s no way you were happy and popular at a black school! Recant your heresy, Jew!”

Over the years I’ve come to understand that some of you want to be lied to. In October some VDARE author wrote, “I darned near religiously read David Cole’s column. Then he got into a bad habit of hispandering. The blacks may be bad, but hispanics are fine and dandy.”

Well, murders are way down with blacks gone and replaced on the East/Southside by Mexicans. That’s just a fact. You want me to lie about it? You want a nursery rhyme, you big brave white retard who’s scared of data?

Murder rates aside, my junior high and high schools were just fine. I was happy and popular, voted “best actor” in both yearbooks, never hassled or harassed. I’ve tried to explain it in past columns, but maybe there is no explanation. Maybe my experience was anomalous.

I’ve lived here 56 years, and I loved my black schools. And—also—we’re better off now that blacks have skedaddled. See, life can be contradictory. Say what you will about American blacks, and Lord knows I do, because they’ll shoot you to death over a fender bender or a “hard stare” or cold fries and they’ll drown in a puddle when fleeing the cops, and yeah, L.A. County is better now that Mexicanization on the Eastside and white/Asian/Persian gentrification on the Westside have displaced them, but a scrawny white Joo like me could’ve only found the acceptance and popularity I did in a black school, a school full of verbal extroverts who love caustic insult humor (not that any of them knew what “caustic” means, but they understood it in spirit).

Had I gone to, say, Rudy “Butch” Stanko High in Shitkick, Wyoming, I’d have been surrounded by brutish car-repairing cattle-slaughtering blue-collar white boys who’d have made my life miserable by calling me faggot for my love of musical theater. But black kids? They worship entertainers. Being an entertainer gives one a place of honor in the black community. Can you sing? Dance? Tell “yo mamma” jokes? You’re accepted. And respected.

A black school might be a nightmare for some, but my nightmare would’ve been Stanko High, where I’d have been called queer just because I danced. At my school, that’s the exact thing that made me popular.

At Stanko High, the pretty white girls woulda had a hundred Brad Pitts to blow before they’d even cast a fleeting glance at me crotchwise. But at my black school, the pretty white girls had, well, me. Me and, like, forty other white/Jew boys. We were it; take us or leave us. I scored like a sonofabitch because if you were a white girl who went white, there were only forty of us in a sea of 2,100 Yaphet Kottos. It’s me or LaDante.

And this is something I never quite understood, and something I still don’t fully understand: Among the small collection of white chicks at my schools, some only dated white, while others only dated black. But there were no crossovers. Six years I never saw a single crossover, a white chick who dated white and black. Never happened. The girls made a racial choice, a commitment, and they stayed with it. White or black, but never both.

Damnedest thing. Maybe you can explain it to me. I’d ask Steve Sailer, but as it’s Christmas he’s at the North Pole running tests comparing the IQ of Heat Miser vs. Snow Miser (science demands answers).

My high school girlfriend, a preternaturally perfect blonde, wouldn’t have touched a black boy even if he were some Green Mile cancer-curing magical mega-negro. On the other hand, the stubby little blonde blue-eyed Irish transplant from Waukesha I was gaga over for some bizarre reason would only date blacks. She liked me, and we had many enjoyable nights together, but like a Birmingham water fountain she was coloreds only.

My ex-girlfriend is still one of my best friends, but Waukesha Wendy died of fatness ten years ago, because if there’s one thing black men don’t want their white women to do, it’s slim down.

Sometimes God gives you cold fries because you don’t need any more fries, you fat-ass bitch.

One of the realities of black schools during the early ’80s was that every semester there’d be an LAPD narc in the student body. It came with the territory. The narc would collect data on the dealers, and at semester’s end the cops would descend on the school in Wagner-esque Apocalypse Now style with Chief Daryl Gates riding a battering ram shouting about napalm, and all the kids who’d been ID’d by the narc would be scooped up, lined up, and hauled away.

To be clear, there was just as much drug use at Beverly Hills High, but the BHPD would never do a drug sweep…not with half the parents being attorneys.

In my sophomore year the narc was a black girl, and the arrest sweep happened the day before my theater class was to premiere our production of Dracula.

We lost ten cast members that day. And I, as Van Helsing, had to improvise around the arrested performers. I had lots of fun with that. If you’ve never seen Dracula as a comedy, you’ve missed out.

So the first semester of my senior year, the narc was an unimpressive blonde. She did everything wrong. She was way too obvious about asking Jamaal, “Where the drugs be at, homie?” She wouldn’t kiss any boys. Well, shit, that’s how you know someone’s a narc; they’re a cop, and an adult, so of course they can’t kiss or otherwise sexually interact with a minor.

Pretty girl who asks “where da drugs” but won’t kiss a boy? Might as well tattoo NARC on your forehead.

On the final day of the first semester, the blonde girl was conspicuously absent. And before the gangbangers could say, “Where she at?” the helicopters descended and the cruisers drove in and the LAPD did its sweep and picked up three dozen cracky blackies.

We all wondered, who’ll be the second-semester narc?

And then Chynna Phillips showed up.

I need to word this carefully as I don’t want any defamation claims. What I heard—and this doesn’t mean it happened, it just means it was the school scuttlebutt—was that Phillips had been booted from her ritzy white private school for drug abuse. Kicked out of blue heaven, she had no choice but to finish her senior year in black hell.

And what did she do the moment she arrived? She started asking about procuring drugs, of course.

At a school where several Crip leaders had just been imprisoned courtesy of a blonde narc.

So it’s lunchtime and I’m speaking with my friend Anthony, a Crip captain. A short kid like me, but good with a gun and violent when provoked. His nickname was “Microcrip,” and you’ll think that’s a joke but it’s 100 percent true. And he was my pal.

He tells me that Crip upper management is convinced that the new blonde girl, “Vachynna Phillips,” is another narc. She be askin’ too many questions about product. She be wantin’ to buy too much powder.

And he tells me that the Crips are thinking of “taking her out,” payback to the LAPD after years of humiliating gang sweeps thanks to their female narcs.

And I’m like, “Oh no, Anthony, she’s no narc. That’s Chynna Phillips. Her parents are big wealthy druggie pervert musicians. She’s not asking about drugs because she wants to arrest you. She’s asking about drugs because she wants drugs. Take her money, not her life.”

And what followed was ten minutes of me trying to explain the Mamas & the Papas to a Crip.

“You know, “California Dreamin’”? Call-and-response, “stopped into a choich”?

It took a while, but I finally convinced Anthony that she was on the level.

Funny enough, Anthony did remember “the fat ho that choked on the ham sandwich.” That’s literally the detail that brought him around (fat white women are forever seared into black consciousness). And being a punctilious dick even back then, I had to correct him that just because you die while eating a ham sandwich doesn’t mean the ham sandwich killed you.

It’s a principle I live by to this day.

Plus, I pointed out that the first-semester narc had been a blonde, and the LAPD never repeats the same trick two semesters in a row.

Anyway, I dispelled Anthony’s concerns, and the Crips embraced Phillips. They sold her whatever she wanted to snort up those cruelly flared nostrils of hers, and everyone came away happy.

So yeah, I saved her life. But where’s MY parade? Where’s MY medal? Thinking back, I don’t believe I said a single word to Phillips that entire semester, or she to me. But yeah, I persuaded the Crips to not kill her.

Venmo me $500, Chynna. I’m a banned author; I could use the dough. Or just go to BuyMeABeer.com. Five bucks would be fine too. After all, Christmas is a time of giving.

You’re married to Billy Baldwin, aren’t you?

Shit, maybe I should’ve let the Crips kill you. Woulda been doing you a favor.

Anyway, for the rest of you, as you listen to Wilson Phillips sing “Hey Santa!” on the radio, just remember that we wouldn’t have that coke-nosed incest baby had she been shot in the back of the head in a south-of-Venice-Boulevard crack house in March 1986 because a bunch of ignorant blacks thought she was a narc.

Wilson Phillips would just be the fat one.

Who, ironically, would’ve been feted rather than feared had she attended my high school. A school, perhaps a relic, in which white, black, Jew, and blondie lived in peace. A school in which ham sandwiches never blocked the epiglottides of our fatties and a wealthy cokehead could be saved by a tiny Jew speaking reason to a midget Crip.

May you all find such anomalous joy.