Friday, August 22, 2008

Television Kills Brain Cells, Story at Eleven

I’m bummed. There’s hardly anything good on TV.

Have you seen the Food Network lately? It’s become the MTV of food. How many different food competitions can they air? Chili competitions, burger competitions, cake competitions! What is this?

They’ve resorted to putting contestants in cake and sculpture competitions through a gauntlet of stairs and bottomless pits like in The Golden Child in hopes that there will be a catastrophic cake collapse. I have an idea, how about putting together a team of ice sculptors and bomb squad agents to see who can most intricately and artistically sculpt their way into a bomb encased in ice. This will ensure an explosion, death, and higher ratings.

And what’s up with these ‘in search of’ shows? At their core these shows are about a team of slack-jawed fools chasing nothing. Look at In Search of the Lochness Monster. How about airing the show where you actually capture the beast? It doesn’t even have to be the Lochness Monster, a peculiar fish will suffice. I’d even be happy with a larger-than-average fish. It doesn’t even have to be freakishly enormous, a goldfish the size of my hand will do.

As far as I’m concerned, the best thing on television in recent years has been the Classic Arts Showcase, a show that encourages viewers to “go feast upon the buffet of arts in their community.” There are two things excitingly cool about this: one, it’s completely non profit and funded to run by founder Lloyd Rigler until at least 2022; and two, it’s something different.

I mean, I won’t be one of those viewers who’ll go out and feast upon the buffet of arts available in my community. First of all, I’m not that interested in the arts, and secondly, the buffet of arts in my community is either paintings of naked women on velvet hanging in bars, or graffiti. I’m just glad that there’s something novel airing. CAS is like a singular rose hidden in a field of rampant weeds.

I wish there were more stimulating and somewhat innovative shows on television. Something that would capture my attention and keep it like an iron trap, something like The Benefits of Champagne Enemas, or Talk Sex with Sue Johanson with Live Demonstrations and Donkey Shows and Also Instead of Sue Johanson it’s Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, that’d work just fine. Instead I have to deal with reality TV, wife swapping, and the Food Network teaching me how to chiffonade and make a roux every 30 minutes.

Where are the donkeys? Such is life.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

The Tale of Angry Dog

Once upon a time there was an angry dog. “Angry Dog! Angry Dog!” people would shout as he strolled by. Everyone always wondered why his owners named him Angry Dog. Some assumed it was because of his angry demeanor, others because he always mauled passersby.

“That dog is Satan’s dog,” the older folk’d say. “I’m going to kill me that gosh darn dog one’ these days,” the younger folk’d say. And the children, they didn’t have much to say on account of them being chased across the neighborhood to be eaten by Angry Dog.

He used to be a good dog back in the day—back before he was bred as a fighting dog. “Good dog! Good dog!” he would hear with subsequent pats and belly rubs every time his owners had visitors. He would sit, roll over, shake hands, and he hardly ever humped as his balls were removed, you see. I can’t really say what caused his owners to turn such a perfectly good pup into a vicious fighting machine of death. I asked them once and they said, “protection,” but I really think it was for the money they got at the dog fights.

One day there was a secret town meeting where the destruction of Angry Dog was to be discussed. “We gotta kill that dang dog,” yelled one participant.

“Now how in tarnation are we gonna kill that there dog? He just about takes one of our arms off every time we get near the feller!” said another.

“How ‘bout we stuff cats with dynamite, and set catmines next to fire hydrants!” said yet another.

“You’re all ignorant and insensitive oafs,” yelled a young woman with college textbooks clutched to her chest. “It’s not the dog’s fault! We should be punishing his owners! They’re the ones who created this creature! Target them, not the—.” At that point the frothing beast burst through a wall in an explosion of splinters and pinned the young woman on the floor before she could finish her sentence.

When the town folk returned, all they found was the motionless body of the young woman. There wasn’t a bite on her. For months the cowardly town folk believed she had died of fright, but the coroner said no, her death was the result of a failed mugging.

To this day nobody knows Angry Dog’s whereabouts. All I have to say is be careful at the next town meeting, for it could be you who is involved in a failed mugging.

Friday, August 1, 2008

My Poetry

This first poem is called The Expulsion and is an homage to Langston Hughes. I was inspired by a man walking into a supermarket who bought a papaya. The papaya was heavenly and fresh when I bit into it. I am that man.

A part of you,
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me,
but we are one and soon two.
You kissed my face and we fell in love,
then you rotted me from the inside out.
After you're gone
you cause me agonizing pain
when you explode from my chest cavity,
face hugger baby.

The following poem is an untitled snippet of the journal I kept while hiking across the Appalachias attempting to discover nirvana. Many of you have read this as I sometimes use it as an away message, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the power of ritual animal sacrifice.

A giant bear with funky claws of tender
swipes at my face with beautiful fury.
I ate his child and he's revenging my body,
with pounces of gold.