-I intentionally ignored the story yesterday. Husbands cheat sometimes. Wives cheat sometimes. Families are torn apart every day. When it happens to famous families it's easy to stand on the outside and judge and speculate and poke fun, but really, why bother? For a cheap, sleazy thrill? Pointless. But now that pictures of Arnold's mistress were all over the internet today, I have to join the peanut gallery.
Mr. Schwarzenegger isn't exactly a subtle guy is he? From the time he swallowed his first tablespoon of Brewers' Yeast, he went one way, and rigidly adhered to that path of pure machismo. Marry the prim and proper debutante, do other things with the voluptuous Latina. It's pretty much the way every man thinks, but I suppose it's a matter of perspective whether Schwarzenegger should be commended or condemned for actually behaving that way.
- I just had my last math class. Very broken up about that.
- How long is President Obama going to wait to intervene in the NFL labor dispute?
- I want to thank everyone for their kind words and support of this blog, but honestly I'm upset at the total dearth of vitriol and rancor on my comments page. Maybe anyone prone to leaving an angry comment can sense the merciless self loathing in the writing and realizes there is nothing they can say to make me feel any lower. Still, like the saying goes, "You're no one in this world until someone sends you an anonymous death threat."
- The last thing is the opening paragraph from my novel length manuscript A Better Place To Die. Just felt like putting it on here. If anyone wants to read more let me know in the comments or on Facebook. Have a good night everyone.
It was still a while before sunrise. Time here isn't measured the way it is on Earth, and the rabble get all bent out of shape when someone tries to convert it over, but between you and me, since this is my story, and you're the only one reading it, and Earth time is what we both know best, it was somewhere around four AM. Somewhere around four AM. The time frame in which the most prolific chaos imaginable is perpetrated throughout the universe. Traipsing through a dark and scary forest, I was engaged in a variety of nonsense myself that morning.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Drunk Blog
*Originally written and posted May 12. There was some type of technical problem with the website and it went missing until today (5/17). Luckily the smart folks at Google were able to pull it back from the cyber abyss.*
Feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today. Why? Who cares. Everyone has their own tale of woe. The degree to which people pretend to care about other people's problems is determined by how close they are, or what they might be looking for in return. Our blogger/blogee relationship indemnifies us against all of that ridiculousness.
And even if it didn't, I'm not sure I could explain what is bothering me anyway. In order to do that I would first have to have some basic understanding of my own emotions. I'd have to view the world from a broader vantage point than that of my own narrow sociopathic desires for ego satisfaction and manipulative control. The truth is I wouldn't know a real emotion if it walked up to me and stuck it's thumb in my eye.
Worse, I'm not bothered by that. I'm a chubby, smirking meat suit puffed out around a soulless black hole. And I don't care. So yeah I'm feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today, and the why of it doesn't matter. What does is how I'm handling it. How?, you ask. I'm on my way to being very, very drunk.
I don't drink often. However, like other things I don't do often (pay my bills, vacuum my living room, overlook others' shortcomings) when I do do it, it's always a bigger deal than it needs to be. I can count on one hand the times I've been intoxicated and not revisited my past three days digestive history. Yeah I'm what regular drinkers call an amateur. Shockingly another thing I am incompetent at. I'm sincerely awed and humbled by those real drinkers who at two AM are still debating the early years of the transcontinental rail road with a glassy eyed panel of bar side experts, but are up, showered and ready to go to work four hours later. That's not me.
Part of the problem is I got a late start in my drinking endeavors. I didn't have my first taste of alcohol until I was twenty four. Hard cider on draft. Many more followed, interspersed with shots of Grand Marnier for some reason. At the end of the night I was stumbling down the main street of College Park, Maryland hollering about how wonderful life is, pausing once in a while to vomit all over the side walk. A proud moment to be sure, and one I'll be reenacting this evening, I have little doubt.
Here's my hypothesis as to why I do this to myself sometimes. I am genetically predisposed to taking things wayyyyy too seriously. My parents drag neurosis behind themselves like the heavy chains weighting down that first prick ghost who comes to warn Ebenezer Scrooge about the lousy night he's going to have. To avoid the same burden, I taught myself to play a meditative game I call The Quiet End.
To play along at home imagine all of your problems and worries surrounding you like an angry mob, ripping every piece of positive energy out of you through your throat. Next picture the mob, now satisfied, walking away, and slowly dissolving into the ether. The background fades away too, and soon there is nothing but you, standing alone on the precipice of eternity, staring out into the void. Oblivion. Keep staring. There. There it is. See that? That was Oblivion winking at you, telling you nothing matters and therefore everything is possible. Life is good again, and you can go back and take on the world. The thing is, I'm not good enough yet at seeing Oblivion every time. She seems to appear much easier when I'm drunk. So I do this to myself sometimes to remember how she looks, and how her blink looks, and how nothing really matters, and how everything is possible.
Feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today. Why? Who cares. Everyone has their own tale of woe. The degree to which people pretend to care about other people's problems is determined by how close they are, or what they might be looking for in return. Our blogger/blogee relationship indemnifies us against all of that ridiculousness.
And even if it didn't, I'm not sure I could explain what is bothering me anyway. In order to do that I would first have to have some basic understanding of my own emotions. I'd have to view the world from a broader vantage point than that of my own narrow sociopathic desires for ego satisfaction and manipulative control. The truth is I wouldn't know a real emotion if it walked up to me and stuck it's thumb in my eye.
Worse, I'm not bothered by that. I'm a chubby, smirking meat suit puffed out around a soulless black hole. And I don't care. So yeah I'm feeling a little agitated, angry and sad today, and the why of it doesn't matter. What does is how I'm handling it. How?, you ask. I'm on my way to being very, very drunk.
I don't drink often. However, like other things I don't do often (pay my bills, vacuum my living room, overlook others' shortcomings) when I do do it, it's always a bigger deal than it needs to be. I can count on one hand the times I've been intoxicated and not revisited my past three days digestive history. Yeah I'm what regular drinkers call an amateur. Shockingly another thing I am incompetent at. I'm sincerely awed and humbled by those real drinkers who at two AM are still debating the early years of the transcontinental rail road with a glassy eyed panel of bar side experts, but are up, showered and ready to go to work four hours later. That's not me.
Part of the problem is I got a late start in my drinking endeavors. I didn't have my first taste of alcohol until I was twenty four. Hard cider on draft. Many more followed, interspersed with shots of Grand Marnier for some reason. At the end of the night I was stumbling down the main street of College Park, Maryland hollering about how wonderful life is, pausing once in a while to vomit all over the side walk. A proud moment to be sure, and one I'll be reenacting this evening, I have little doubt.
Here's my hypothesis as to why I do this to myself sometimes. I am genetically predisposed to taking things wayyyyy too seriously. My parents drag neurosis behind themselves like the heavy chains weighting down that first prick ghost who comes to warn Ebenezer Scrooge about the lousy night he's going to have. To avoid the same burden, I taught myself to play a meditative game I call The Quiet End.
To play along at home imagine all of your problems and worries surrounding you like an angry mob, ripping every piece of positive energy out of you through your throat. Next picture the mob, now satisfied, walking away, and slowly dissolving into the ether. The background fades away too, and soon there is nothing but you, standing alone on the precipice of eternity, staring out into the void. Oblivion. Keep staring. There. There it is. See that? That was Oblivion winking at you, telling you nothing matters and therefore everything is possible. Life is good again, and you can go back and take on the world. The thing is, I'm not good enough yet at seeing Oblivion every time. She seems to appear much easier when I'm drunk. So I do this to myself sometimes to remember how she looks, and how her blink looks, and how nothing really matters, and how everything is possible.
First Rage HOF Inductees
Unless I fall victim to some freak catastrophe between now and June 12, I'll be in Canastota NY that day to watch the International Boxing Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony (www.ibhof.com). My eager anticipation of that event, coupled with today's painfully boring news stories, has motivated me to make good on a promise from a few blogs back to name the first inductees into my Rage Hall of Fame.
In No Particular Order:
1. The Time That Jack-A** Substitute Teacher In Tenth
Grade Put Me In An Arm Bar
He was white. So am I. Had I been otherwise he wouldn't have even considered touching me. Bad idea for a white substitute teacher at a Rochester city high school to attack a non-white student if he wants to be invited back. But he knew he could get away with attacking me. I'm guessing he got a heads up that I was the class trouble maker, which is absurd. I didn't show up to class enough to be the class trouble maker. Regardless. "I'm not going to take any of your crap today understand?" he grunted. Ooooooo-kay. Whatever you say pal. Nice job establishing your dominance over the class.
Every day for the past nineteen years I've begged god for the opportunity to meet this piece of human filth again under different circumstances, where I assure you there would be a different outcome. Yes that's a macho, d-bag statement to write. Also a true one. Today I'll stop all of that though. I'm able to do so by inducting this memory into my Rage Hall of Fame.
2. The Time My First Grade Gym Teacher Went Berserk
Ms. Somersault. Her real name was almost as absurd. It's as if she based her profession on her last name. Unfortunately for her she wasn't born to Mr. And Mrs. Commodities-Broker so she had to become an elementary school gym teacher.
Once at an assembly, one of Mrs. Somersault's colleagues disciplined me for some sort of nonsense. When they were done and walking away, I made a rude gesture behind their back. Ms. Somersault appeared out of the ether (the way adults always seemed to be able to do back then) and grabbed my arm with one hand, and my middle finger with her other, yanking it in a motion I'm going to guess she was unaccustomed to. "What if I ripped this finger right off your hand? Huh? Would you like that?" she hissed.
Ms. Somersault was not an attractive woman. Life is unfairly mean to ugly women. I'll also concede that despite all of my criticism of teachers and the education system, that teaching is a hard job. However even with those very generously granted caveats there is never any reason for a so called educator to try and tear the finger off the hand of a six year old. But now, almost thirty years later I can stop my daily prayer for bad things, very, very bad things to feast upon Ms. Somersault at a cellular level. The memory goes in the Rage Hall of Fame and I can walk away.
3. The Time My Birth Mother and Her Lesbian Life
Partner Walked Through The Mall Wearing
Matching Dog Collars.
Unfortunately I was with them. This was by design. They had to prove their open homosexuality to the world by walking through a crowded public place holding hands and wearing odd leather accessories, and I, as my mother's son, had to be part of this ceremony.
Just wish they would have told me about it before we went to the mall. Just wish that mall hadn't of been less than a mile from my Junior High...on a Friday evening, when all of that Junior High's popular kids were there hanging out. On the outside it's easy to say that what my mother and her "life partner" did was brave. It was the late eighties, still years before homosexuality became so trendy.
And yeah, maybe it was brave. Or maybe it was an extremely selfish sh***y thing to do. Either way, as of right now it doesn't matter to me any more. The memory now hangs in The Rage Hall of Fame.
In No Particular Order:
1. The Time That Jack-A** Substitute Teacher In Tenth
Grade Put Me In An Arm Bar
He was white. So am I. Had I been otherwise he wouldn't have even considered touching me. Bad idea for a white substitute teacher at a Rochester city high school to attack a non-white student if he wants to be invited back. But he knew he could get away with attacking me. I'm guessing he got a heads up that I was the class trouble maker, which is absurd. I didn't show up to class enough to be the class trouble maker. Regardless. "I'm not going to take any of your crap today understand?" he grunted. Ooooooo-kay. Whatever you say pal. Nice job establishing your dominance over the class.
Every day for the past nineteen years I've begged god for the opportunity to meet this piece of human filth again under different circumstances, where I assure you there would be a different outcome. Yes that's a macho, d-bag statement to write. Also a true one. Today I'll stop all of that though. I'm able to do so by inducting this memory into my Rage Hall of Fame.
2. The Time My First Grade Gym Teacher Went Berserk
Ms. Somersault. Her real name was almost as absurd. It's as if she based her profession on her last name. Unfortunately for her she wasn't born to Mr. And Mrs. Commodities-Broker so she had to become an elementary school gym teacher.
Once at an assembly, one of Mrs. Somersault's colleagues disciplined me for some sort of nonsense. When they were done and walking away, I made a rude gesture behind their back. Ms. Somersault appeared out of the ether (the way adults always seemed to be able to do back then) and grabbed my arm with one hand, and my middle finger with her other, yanking it in a motion I'm going to guess she was unaccustomed to. "What if I ripped this finger right off your hand? Huh? Would you like that?" she hissed.
Ms. Somersault was not an attractive woman. Life is unfairly mean to ugly women. I'll also concede that despite all of my criticism of teachers and the education system, that teaching is a hard job. However even with those very generously granted caveats there is never any reason for a so called educator to try and tear the finger off the hand of a six year old. But now, almost thirty years later I can stop my daily prayer for bad things, very, very bad things to feast upon Ms. Somersault at a cellular level. The memory goes in the Rage Hall of Fame and I can walk away.
3. The Time My Birth Mother and Her Lesbian Life
Partner Walked Through The Mall Wearing
Matching Dog Collars.
Unfortunately I was with them. This was by design. They had to prove their open homosexuality to the world by walking through a crowded public place holding hands and wearing odd leather accessories, and I, as my mother's son, had to be part of this ceremony.
Just wish they would have told me about it before we went to the mall. Just wish that mall hadn't of been less than a mile from my Junior High...on a Friday evening, when all of that Junior High's popular kids were there hanging out. On the outside it's easy to say that what my mother and her "life partner" did was brave. It was the late eighties, still years before homosexuality became so trendy.
And yeah, maybe it was brave. Or maybe it was an extremely selfish sh***y thing to do. Either way, as of right now it doesn't matter to me any more. The memory now hangs in The Rage Hall of Fame.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Obligatory Political Rant
The problem with this blog is that I'm the one writing it. Let me boldly suggest that that's the problem with most blogs. Blog writers have a lot of the same psychological traits as serial killers (or in the case of female bloggers, Munchhausen By Proxy Syndrome perpetrators).
Let's list a few of those cliche characteristics together, we've all seen the same Discovery Channel shows. Marginalized, or a feeling of being marginalized in some way by society, under-employed, exaggerated ego, inflated sense of superiority, feelings of cough mumble sexual inadequacy mumble, and so on. If I was a real human being, living an actual life, a life like one of the three make believe Aidans of my day dreams for instance, the last thing on my mind right now would be Donald Trump's decision not to run for president, and the morons in the media's reaction to that decision.
Enforcer For An Outlaw Biker Gang Aidan would be too busy dividing his attention between the voice of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend in the ear piece of his blue tooth explaining why she's decided not to go with Fireball Heaven by The Strolling Eddies as the song for her last dance anymore, and the GPS on the dashboard of the rented Cadillac as it guides him to St. Louis where he plans on fire bombing one thing and bludgeoning to death something else.
Billionaire Aidan would still be In Cannes, blissfully unaware of The Donald's decision as he watches his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend flirt with Channing Tatum at the bar across the room while he finishes an interview with a business journalist from Chinese television about his recent acquisition of Estonia's main wireless Internet provider.
Third World Dictator Aidan, being half owners with Trump of a gulf course outside of Memphis, would have heard of his buddy's decision, but would be too busy trying on bizarre, wholly contrived military uniforms for the approval of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend to care one way or the other.
Sadly I am none of those Aidans. I'm normal, boring, d-bag Aidan, so naturally I have to have some thoughts about Trump and the "journalists" covering him.
Trump's decision not to run, if in fact he was ever really considering running at all, is cynical, self serving and all too predictable. Unfortunately the main stream media's response is all the more so.
Oh how happy they are with their "nanny nanny boo-boo" columns on Huffington Post about how they knew all along, and how Trump is a self promoting blow hard who glommed on to the absurd birther issue to garner as much hard and fast attention for himself as he could. "Once again" they smugly sneer, "we're right, and all of you lowly vermin who dare think for one moment Obama is less than a living god are wrong, and we wish you all the best in finding enough spare change in the rented furniture of your trailers to donate to the Newt Gingrich campaign."
They are so busy ridiculing Trump and his birth certificate idiocy that they aren't addressing the larger, far more important issue; why are so many people so angry and dissatisfied right now? It's that anger that a prodigious opportunist like Trump was able to so expertly exploit, and it's that anger that is the real story. Instead of facing down the tough questions involved in that subject however, they would rather admire their reflections in their fancy journalism diplomas and feel like they know something the rest of us don't.
The fact that millions of disenfranchised Americans were duped by the machinations of a selfish billionaire should bring a tear to their eye, not a smile to their face.
Let's list a few of those cliche characteristics together, we've all seen the same Discovery Channel shows. Marginalized, or a feeling of being marginalized in some way by society, under-employed, exaggerated ego, inflated sense of superiority, feelings of cough mumble sexual inadequacy mumble, and so on. If I was a real human being, living an actual life, a life like one of the three make believe Aidans of my day dreams for instance, the last thing on my mind right now would be Donald Trump's decision not to run for president, and the morons in the media's reaction to that decision.
Enforcer For An Outlaw Biker Gang Aidan would be too busy dividing his attention between the voice of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend in the ear piece of his blue tooth explaining why she's decided not to go with Fireball Heaven by The Strolling Eddies as the song for her last dance anymore, and the GPS on the dashboard of the rented Cadillac as it guides him to St. Louis where he plans on fire bombing one thing and bludgeoning to death something else.
Billionaire Aidan would still be In Cannes, blissfully unaware of The Donald's decision as he watches his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend flirt with Channing Tatum at the bar across the room while he finishes an interview with a business journalist from Chinese television about his recent acquisition of Estonia's main wireless Internet provider.
Third World Dictator Aidan, being half owners with Trump of a gulf course outside of Memphis, would have heard of his buddy's decision, but would be too busy trying on bizarre, wholly contrived military uniforms for the approval of his nineteen year old stripper girlfriend to care one way or the other.
Sadly I am none of those Aidans. I'm normal, boring, d-bag Aidan, so naturally I have to have some thoughts about Trump and the "journalists" covering him.
Trump's decision not to run, if in fact he was ever really considering running at all, is cynical, self serving and all too predictable. Unfortunately the main stream media's response is all the more so.
Oh how happy they are with their "nanny nanny boo-boo" columns on Huffington Post about how they knew all along, and how Trump is a self promoting blow hard who glommed on to the absurd birther issue to garner as much hard and fast attention for himself as he could. "Once again" they smugly sneer, "we're right, and all of you lowly vermin who dare think for one moment Obama is less than a living god are wrong, and we wish you all the best in finding enough spare change in the rented furniture of your trailers to donate to the Newt Gingrich campaign."
They are so busy ridiculing Trump and his birth certificate idiocy that they aren't addressing the larger, far more important issue; why are so many people so angry and dissatisfied right now? It's that anger that a prodigious opportunist like Trump was able to so expertly exploit, and it's that anger that is the real story. Instead of facing down the tough questions involved in that subject however, they would rather admire their reflections in their fancy journalism diplomas and feel like they know something the rest of us don't.
The fact that millions of disenfranchised Americans were duped by the machinations of a selfish billionaire should bring a tear to their eye, not a smile to their face.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
When You Walk Through The Garden
Sure the mid-east is burning, the mid west is flooding, there's high ranking French politicians raping hotel maids, and crazy English guys chopping off women's heads in supermarkets, but all that's on my mind this rainy, pre-armageddon, Sunday afternoon is how I really, really wish they'd made more seasons of The Wire. Man what a good show.
Of all those great characters and amazing actors, my favorite (other than Omar played by Michael Kenneth Williams who stole the show) was Stringer Bell, brought to life by Idris Elba. He was close to James Gandolfini-Tony Soprano good. Elba is in Thor right now. I'm sure he's good in it, but I have absolutely no intention of confirming that hypothesis.
If I wanted to waste my time and money I'd go see Prom. Aimee Teegarden is just adorable isn't she? Sarcasm in that last sentence? Probably not as much as there should be. Anyway Elba also stars on BBC America's Luther right now. Yeah he's great in it and the show is worth watching because of him and a decent supporting cast, but the story lines are so absurd they make stupid American cop shows like CSI (where inexplicably all of these bankrupt municipalities are able to spend between 10 and 15 million dollars per murder investigation) look like, well like The Wire. If the quality of police work in England is even 1 percent as half-a**ed as it appears on Luther, than anyone looking for an entrepreneurial opportunity should move to London and start a crime syndicate.
Of all those great characters and amazing actors, my favorite (other than Omar played by Michael Kenneth Williams who stole the show) was Stringer Bell, brought to life by Idris Elba. He was close to James Gandolfini-Tony Soprano good. Elba is in Thor right now. I'm sure he's good in it, but I have absolutely no intention of confirming that hypothesis.
If I wanted to waste my time and money I'd go see Prom. Aimee Teegarden is just adorable isn't she? Sarcasm in that last sentence? Probably not as much as there should be. Anyway Elba also stars on BBC America's Luther right now. Yeah he's great in it and the show is worth watching because of him and a decent supporting cast, but the story lines are so absurd they make stupid American cop shows like CSI (where inexplicably all of these bankrupt municipalities are able to spend between 10 and 15 million dollars per murder investigation) look like, well like The Wire. If the quality of police work in England is even 1 percent as half-a**ed as it appears on Luther, than anyone looking for an entrepreneurial opportunity should move to London and start a crime syndicate.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
"Give Me The Justice Department, Entertainment Division"
Richard Dawson playing the role of Damon Killian, the sociopathic host and executive producer of the futuristic game show The Running Man, delivered that line in the movie by the same name in 1987. In the film, Dawson's character, and the show he ran, were supposed to be villains, exaggerated monsters presiding over an omnipotent entertainment industry catering to the worst, base desires of the blood starved masses.
But as a ten year old kid at the time, I didn't see what the problem was. I loved Family Feud. I loved Richard Dawson. Damon Killian wasn't such a bad guy either. And the idea of a TV show where violent felons compete in a protracted obstacle course of mortal combat and catastrophic mayhem seemed like a great idea. It still does.
For almost twenty five years now I've waited for this nightmare vision of television's future to come to life. But no. TV is still boring. Maybe not as boring as it was in 1987, but certainly not as exciting as it should be. When American Gladiators came on a couple of years after Running Man I got excited...needlessly. The show was nothing but meat heads in spandex throwing Nerf balls at retired gym teachers. Survivor's debut tantalized me similarly. But that was an even bigger let down, turning out to be little more than the highlight reel of a two week deprivation experiment. I'm not saying ten days without cheeseburgers and loved ones is easy, however it's a little less challenging (and entertaining) then fending off a four hundred pound lunatic with a chainsaw.
To illustrate my point further, the biggest news out of Hollywood this past week was that Ashton Kutcher blah blah blah Sheen blah blah blah Men blah blah blah. Yawning. DAG NABBIT WHERE'S THE FLIPPING ENTHUSIASM? This is SHOW business. Entertain me. Every person I know has a great idea for a TV show. Here's one of mine.
When Gaddafi is captured in a couple of months, instead of detaining him until a kangaroo court (comprised of lesser men who were too weak to overthrow him without America's help) sends him to the gallows, he should be sent to a secret location in Burbank instead. Every week the deposed dictator will then preside over the fates of four contestants represented by celebrity spokespeople from Mike Tyson, to Gloria Estefan, to Oscar The Grouch and Joe The Plumber.
Each spokesperson will have to try to convince the third world strong man of the validity of their randomly selected subject. Mike Tyson speaking on behalf of contestant Bob Jones from Ceder Rapids, would have to attempt to convince Gaddafi of the value of vouchers for charter schools, while Oscar The Grouch repping contestant Sarah Bronkowski from Portland, Oregon would try to persuade him about the benefits of solar energy, and so on. The three losing contestants will be taken out and shot (not really, but Gaddafi won't know that) and the weekly winner gets a hundred thousand dollars.
Now that's entertainment. Come on TV executives. For god sakes, step it up. In the immortal words of Jessica Savitch (Youtube her) "This is Primetime Television here folks."
But as a ten year old kid at the time, I didn't see what the problem was. I loved Family Feud. I loved Richard Dawson. Damon Killian wasn't such a bad guy either. And the idea of a TV show where violent felons compete in a protracted obstacle course of mortal combat and catastrophic mayhem seemed like a great idea. It still does.
For almost twenty five years now I've waited for this nightmare vision of television's future to come to life. But no. TV is still boring. Maybe not as boring as it was in 1987, but certainly not as exciting as it should be. When American Gladiators came on a couple of years after Running Man I got excited...needlessly. The show was nothing but meat heads in spandex throwing Nerf balls at retired gym teachers. Survivor's debut tantalized me similarly. But that was an even bigger let down, turning out to be little more than the highlight reel of a two week deprivation experiment. I'm not saying ten days without cheeseburgers and loved ones is easy, however it's a little less challenging (and entertaining) then fending off a four hundred pound lunatic with a chainsaw.
To illustrate my point further, the biggest news out of Hollywood this past week was that Ashton Kutcher blah blah blah Sheen blah blah blah Men blah blah blah. Yawning. DAG NABBIT WHERE'S THE FLIPPING ENTHUSIASM? This is SHOW business. Entertain me. Every person I know has a great idea for a TV show. Here's one of mine.
When Gaddafi is captured in a couple of months, instead of detaining him until a kangaroo court (comprised of lesser men who were too weak to overthrow him without America's help) sends him to the gallows, he should be sent to a secret location in Burbank instead. Every week the deposed dictator will then preside over the fates of four contestants represented by celebrity spokespeople from Mike Tyson, to Gloria Estefan, to Oscar The Grouch and Joe The Plumber.
Each spokesperson will have to try to convince the third world strong man of the validity of their randomly selected subject. Mike Tyson speaking on behalf of contestant Bob Jones from Ceder Rapids, would have to attempt to convince Gaddafi of the value of vouchers for charter schools, while Oscar The Grouch repping contestant Sarah Bronkowski from Portland, Oregon would try to persuade him about the benefits of solar energy, and so on. The three losing contestants will be taken out and shot (not really, but Gaddafi won't know that) and the weekly winner gets a hundred thousand dollars.
Now that's entertainment. Come on TV executives. For god sakes, step it up. In the immortal words of Jessica Savitch (Youtube her) "This is Primetime Television here folks."
Friday, May 13, 2011
Wrestling With The Nation's Identity.
*Blogger.com is having some technical issues which their support page says they have almost got the better of. My blog from yesterday May 12 "The Drunk Blog" is a temporary casualty of those issues. Supposedly it will be re-posted soon. Here is today's.*
I'm a pro-wrestling fan. It's an aspect of my personality I've spend countless hours explaining, defending, and justifying. I'm not doing any of that today however. I'm not in the mood. It's fake? Really? More proof exists for the existence of Hulk Hogan than the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, but no one calls the Pope a piece of dumb white trash. But I digress. Seriously. I'm not getting dragged into that quagmire right now. My point is this. I am a fan, and therefore a follower of sports entertainment. And in that capacity I have noticed some current problems with pro wrestling which also plague American society at large.
1) Too Much Is Expected of Women.
Women in the world of wrestling today are expected to be pretty, to be talented actresses and models, to be in amazing physical condition, to be willing to show their breasts in Playboy, and to be able to wrestle at the highest levels of skill. Wrestling companies are relying too heavily on their female entertainers right now in an attempt to differentiate their product from their main competition, the mixed martial arts industry. It's a band-aid on a more serious problem, and one which will ultimately do more harm than good.
The same problem exists in today's American life. Corporate greed's gutting of the middle class has mandated dual income homes, making it necessary for women to work at least one job while still delivering and raising children, and unfortunately, more often than not, being largely responsible for the up keep of their households. I'm not saying women can't handle it, or in many cases aren't choosing this life style for themselves. But what I am saying is that if this current dynamic is the new cultural norm, expect some serious growing pains to result from it in the next twenty to thirty years.
2) Abject Cluelessness About Fending Off
Aggressive Competition
When The Rock left sports entertainment for Hollywood (a move he is now reversing because of his unfortunate inability to read a script) he left two heirs apparent: John Cena and Brock Lesnar. Cena has done an admirable job as wrestling's alpha-dog, while Lesnar took a cue from half of wrestling's fans and left town for the greener pastures of mixed martial arts. I have the same attitude towards MMA as I do Impressionist Paintings; I couldn't care less, but I respect the talent involved. One of wrestling's appeals to me is completely lacking in MMA. Humor. But I understand why this is also one of MMA's qualities which makes it so popular. The no nonsense intensity of the octagon provides a refuge against the chronic, excruciating ambiguity of everyday life. Wrestling celebrates that ambiguity. Unfortunately its irony and sarcasm haven't saved pro wrestling's profits lost to UFC, and they can't seem to figure out what to do about that.
Hmm can you think about any humorless, monolithic competitor The United States might be facing right now? A competitor we don't have the first semblance of a clue about how to deal with? The kind of competitor whose idea of irony is... well I'll stop there. I want to be able to do business in China one day, and they probably already have a file on me.
3. A General Feeling of Malaise and Pointlessness
Wrestling has fallen into a rut. Constant "heel turns" and title changes, too many pay per views, too many homogeneous characters. The problem is worse than simple boring content however. Every wrestling show I watch has a faint feel of desperation to it, like no one really knows why they're there or what they're supposed to be doing, or who they're doing it for. It's the exact same vibe I get walking through the grocery store, or the hallways of the college I go to. Everyone is just going through the motions, and that becomes less satisfying and more troubling to all of us with each passing day.
I'm a pro-wrestling fan. It's an aspect of my personality I've spend countless hours explaining, defending, and justifying. I'm not doing any of that today however. I'm not in the mood. It's fake? Really? More proof exists for the existence of Hulk Hogan than the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, but no one calls the Pope a piece of dumb white trash. But I digress. Seriously. I'm not getting dragged into that quagmire right now. My point is this. I am a fan, and therefore a follower of sports entertainment. And in that capacity I have noticed some current problems with pro wrestling which also plague American society at large.
1) Too Much Is Expected of Women.
Women in the world of wrestling today are expected to be pretty, to be talented actresses and models, to be in amazing physical condition, to be willing to show their breasts in Playboy, and to be able to wrestle at the highest levels of skill. Wrestling companies are relying too heavily on their female entertainers right now in an attempt to differentiate their product from their main competition, the mixed martial arts industry. It's a band-aid on a more serious problem, and one which will ultimately do more harm than good.
The same problem exists in today's American life. Corporate greed's gutting of the middle class has mandated dual income homes, making it necessary for women to work at least one job while still delivering and raising children, and unfortunately, more often than not, being largely responsible for the up keep of their households. I'm not saying women can't handle it, or in many cases aren't choosing this life style for themselves. But what I am saying is that if this current dynamic is the new cultural norm, expect some serious growing pains to result from it in the next twenty to thirty years.
2) Abject Cluelessness About Fending Off
Aggressive Competition
When The Rock left sports entertainment for Hollywood (a move he is now reversing because of his unfortunate inability to read a script) he left two heirs apparent: John Cena and Brock Lesnar. Cena has done an admirable job as wrestling's alpha-dog, while Lesnar took a cue from half of wrestling's fans and left town for the greener pastures of mixed martial arts. I have the same attitude towards MMA as I do Impressionist Paintings; I couldn't care less, but I respect the talent involved. One of wrestling's appeals to me is completely lacking in MMA. Humor. But I understand why this is also one of MMA's qualities which makes it so popular. The no nonsense intensity of the octagon provides a refuge against the chronic, excruciating ambiguity of everyday life. Wrestling celebrates that ambiguity. Unfortunately its irony and sarcasm haven't saved pro wrestling's profits lost to UFC, and they can't seem to figure out what to do about that.
Hmm can you think about any humorless, monolithic competitor The United States might be facing right now? A competitor we don't have the first semblance of a clue about how to deal with? The kind of competitor whose idea of irony is... well I'll stop there. I want to be able to do business in China one day, and they probably already have a file on me.
3. A General Feeling of Malaise and Pointlessness
Wrestling has fallen into a rut. Constant "heel turns" and title changes, too many pay per views, too many homogeneous characters. The problem is worse than simple boring content however. Every wrestling show I watch has a faint feel of desperation to it, like no one really knows why they're there or what they're supposed to be doing, or who they're doing it for. It's the exact same vibe I get walking through the grocery store, or the hallways of the college I go to. Everyone is just going through the motions, and that becomes less satisfying and more troubling to all of us with each passing day.
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