Sarcastic satirist Joe Queenan, LV-bound to sign copies of his latest book, expounds on the abominations of popular culture

"There's no such thing as yellow journalism, only yellow journalists."

-- Craig Vetter

Let us now braise famous men:

*"Michael Bolton is the only person in history who has figured out a way to make 'Yesterday' sound worse than the original."

*"Finally (John Tesh) hunkered down at the piano and the concert formally began. Now things got really unpleasant."

Welcome to the sour world of satirist Joe Queenan, as explicated in his latest book, "Red Lobster, White Trash and the Blue Lagoon" (Hyperion, $21.95) The slim volume finds the dyspeptic Queenan touring the greasiest, treacliest, most unsettling nooks of pop culture -- "Cats"! "The Celestine Prophecy"! Adam Sandler movies! -- and being simultaneously horrified and fascinated by what he sees.

Prior to this, Queenan tells us, he had the highest of brows -- he read the New Republic of his own volition, listened to Placido Domingo, discussed the finer points of art cinema over dinner at Zagat-approved restaurants.

Eventually that good life paled. "I was beginning to suspect that snobs like me were cutting ourselves off from all the fun in this society."

And so, like Ulysses -- if Ulysses had been a sarcastic S.O.B. with a book contract -- Queenan set off on an epic voyage.

WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT JOE QUEENAN

We're talking about a guy who makes his living writing funny, testy, scathing magazine stories. His celebrity profiles are legendary for their frank mean-spiritedness -- he views his word-processing program the way French revolutionaries viewed the guillotine. Barbra Streisand? Off with her head! Lou Diamond Phillips? Off with his head! "I'm not into that on-the-other-hand type of argument," he says.

We're talking about a guy who, for the greater good of novelty journalism, has donned a T-shirt reading "Antonio Banderas Research Institute" and polled the denizens of Times Square as to whether they recognized the Spanish actor. "They never did," he reports. He also spent a day as Mickey Rourke -- swearing, refusing to bathe, degrading women.

We're talking about a guy who does these things because he loathes the public-relations phoniness of celebrity culture. "The two worst things about the 20th century," he says, "are the Germans and spin. Spin never lets you view things in their proper perspective."

We're talking about a guy who really does these things because what's more fun than ridiculing Barbra Streisand and getting paid for it?

THE QUEENAN'S ENGLISH

For "Red Lobster" -- expanded from a GQ article titled "How Bad Could It Be?" -- Queenan lowered himself into the depths of inexplicably popular popular culture. He watched endless series of lousy movies. He listened to Michael Bolton CDs. He saw John Tesh in concert. He ate at Red Lobster.

He hated it. Although the writing seems rushed in places, the book nonetheless brims with withering aphorisms and acid bons mots about practically everything Americans en masse seem to love (see box).

Curiously, however, Queenan begins to like wallowing in the very worst of bad culture. He enjoys the rotten horror movies, Stephen King novels, Cleveland. It's all very hip and ironic and camp, of course, the degree of his professed affection demonstrating the depth of his disgust.

He is finally freed from the clammy embrace of pop culture by a second viewing of "Cats," whose awfulness shakes him to his senses.

THIS REPREHENSIBLE BOOK IS AN ELITIST DIATRIBE ON THE PASSIONS OF ORDINARY PEOPLE, AN UNCONSCIONABLE MOCKERY OF THE COMMON MAN.

"Who cares?" Queenan snorts. Elitist? "I grew up in a housing project in South Philly, so screw 'em."

Q: Does that mean America would be better off reading the New Republic, listening to Placido Domingo and eating at really good restaurants?

A: "Well, there's a happy medium between top and bottom -- it's called the middle."

That's where Queenan finds those often-surprising things about pop culture he doesn't hate, or doesn't hate too much. Barry Manilow, for instance. Or John Grisham. They don't pretend to be what they're not, he says, and deliver a good show for the money.

JOE QUEENAN F.A.Q.

No, he isn't like this at home. "We have an irony-free household," Queenan says. "When we go to the Roy Rogers (restaurant), it's not for some irony-related work reason, but because we like the curly fries."

Yes, he has feelings, even for Tesh, whose musical tastes Queenan compares unfavorably to Hitler's. "I'm not entirely without compassion," Queenan says, saying he's embarrassed for Tesh. "No one should be so completely oblivious to what a fool he's making of himself." See, feelings!

No, he doesn't think he's written himself into a corner, even though the people who control magazine journalism -- celebrity publicists -- won't let him near their clients. Fine by him! "If you said, 'Hey, Joe, you'll never have to talk to another movie star,' hey, I'm there."

Yes, he enjoys a good Wayne Newton concert. "I don't like concerts where I feel physically threatened by the performer. There's not an aura of menace at a Wayne Newton show."

COLLATERAL DAMAGE FROM THE POP CULTURE WARS: TWO EXAMPLES

It's not just Joe Queenan who suffers when Joe Queenan suffers bad entertainment. So do ...

1. ... His family: "The worst time was when I dragged them to the Renaissance Fair," Queenan says. "They hated that. My son was only 10 at the time, but even he knew grown men should not dress up as Beowulf."

2. ... His fact-checkers: Sun feature writer Melissa Schorr was an editorial assistant at GQ who fact-checked "How Bad Could It Be?"

"Queenan had helpfully sent in a huge package of 'backup' research materials," she recalls, "which included his ticket stubs from 'Cats,' receipts from his dinners at Red Lobster, and a pile of CDs by John Tesh and Michael Bolton, which I actually had to subject myself to."

As if that wasn't enough, she also had to see "Cats" again, talk to Red Lobster publicists and read "The Horse Whisperer" and "The Celestine Prophecy." It was grueling. "For those two weeks, my job required little more than sitting on the grass in Bryant Park, reading my brains out -- and getting paid for it."

HE'S FEELING MUCH BETTER NOW

The book is done, in print, in stores -- at last, Queenan's odyssey has ended.

"I'm quite happy it's over," he says. "Friends call and say, 'Iron Butterfly and Grand Funk Railroad are playing and there are still tickets.' A year ago, I'd have been on that bus so fast ..." No longer.

Q: Do you suffer from any lingering effects? Do you find yourself having to sneak a "Venus and Mars" book every now and then?

A: "That stuff is so alien for me now. Probably the one lingering aftereffect is that I'd go see Wayne Newton again."

Q: Have you ever considered displaying your sensitive side, perhaps in a book of poetry or a tender coming-of-age novel?

A: "I'm happy you asked that. If I had a tender side, I'd be more than willing to show it. My wife would certainly be happy. But we have to know our jobs. My job is being a satirist. My job is to make fun of things."

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