Violent Pornography: An Attack on TV

                                              Violent Pornography

                                            An Attack on Television





         It’s always been like this. Normal kids are supposed to be occupied with Nintendo games or playing cowboys and Indians. They’re not supposed to be glued to the television screen while mommy and daddy have a cocktail party. I couldn’t get enough of it. He-Man, Married…with Children, Who’s the Boss?, even Blossom, it didn’t matter to me as long as it was broadcasted into my television. I had to watch it. I was hooked. It’s pretty bad when a six-year old asks for a television set for Christmas instead of a G.I. Joe action figure or an intellectually satisfying board game. Television became my babysitter. When my parents would go out for dinner they wouldn’t calla friend’s daughter. They simply turned on Nickelodeon, placed me in front of it, and locked the door. Two hours later, they would find me in the same position as I was when they left me: my legs crossed Indian-style, my body resting on my hand with my back perched at a 45-degree angle. My head would be tilted up two feet away from the screen with drool dripping from my mouth; the perfect bedtime story. They would ask me if I wanted to play a game but my mind was too busy with Smurfs and You Can’t Do That On Television!

         Television was a simply invention when it first came out: a tiny box with two or three knobs, an antenna on top, and three maybe four channels to choose. It was a welcome addition to many households, feedings us news programs, sports, and wholesome entertainment. Families would have dinner at the kitchen table saving Walter Cronkite for dessert. Twenty-five years later, my dinner consisted of fighting over the remote and betting on which person would win, the plaintiff or the defendant, on People’s Court.

         I never saw a dining room table until I was seven. I always thought it was the “special room” where I wasn’t allowed except on holidays. Mom kept her fine china and precious artworks in there and blocked it off as if it was a museum exhibit. If I took one step into that room and I’d be grounded for a week with no toys, no phone, and no friends. But I had a television. Sometimes I thought the television raised me more than my parents did. They were never around, except at night, saving their day for work and grocery shopping. There were certain times when I was excited to go to school because I was able to get away from the TV. It became too much at times, all those colors, images, and ads brainwashing me into thinking that life was a sitcom with commercials breaks. Every time I saw a store or product I remembered the slogan and would get lost for a minute. Meineke: You won’t pay a lot but you’ll get a lot. I guarantee it. I suddenly grew a pure hatred towards George Foreman.

                                                          * * * *

         Who is Nielsen anyway? Why are his ratings so important? Sometimes I feel like I want to take every television and throw it through the windows of ABC, CBS, Fox, Comcast, and the Weather Channel. I would grab the corporation by the shoulders, strap a pair of headphones on their heads and force them to watch repeats of Survivor, Gilmore Girls, and Lost. I bet they wouldn’t even know where they parked their cars afterwards. I want to see if the money is really worth ruining the minds of millions of consumers. I swear to God if I see another retread of ER, Friends, or Gunsmoke I’m going to crash my car into the tower of every cable company and chant, ”This is not real life!” There’s nobody trapped on an island and friends don’t sit around coffee shops and talk about sex tips and fashion all god damned day. Find a job. Smoke some drugs. Be different, commit a crime. Steal a purse from an old lady and use the money to buy your girlfriend or boyfriend a nice gift, perhaps diamonds or season tickets. I don’t want to hear about another TV star whining about not making $1 million an episode when I can’t even buy a new pair of shoes.

         It’s getting so bad that I can’t even go to the movies anymore without being sucked into the consumer propaganda. Some big-time corporation asshole thought it would be a good idea to place a dozen commercials before the actual previews, the only good I could see coming from this is it gives me a few extra minutes to make the movie on time. The only problem is by the time I’m done watching the commercials I’m already out of popcorn, my drink is empty, and I have to go to the bathroom. I still have the previews to sit through. Sometime I wonder what Vic Mackey, the fictitious cop from the The Shield, would do in a situation like this. He’d probably bust down all the doors until he found out who was operating the movie theatre, stash some drugs on their body, and arrest them for aggravated assault. What was that movie about?

                                                        * * * *

         Last night I was watching television when I fell asleep. I had a dream in which I was wandering the woods, by myself, thinking about The Honeymooners and imagining Jackie Gleason behind me as I gave him a piggy-back ride. We were running through the branches, each branch hitting my face, knocking out my teeth, and bludgeoning my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but I could hear the voice of Ted Koppel guiding me to salvation: an Arby’s restaurant with the Big Montana on special for $1.99. I reached into my pocket but all I could grab was a remote control or a TV Guide. When I tried to give my order to the teller she morphed into the shape of Joey Tribiani and Rachel Geller mixed together. It was like a spin-off multiplied by a reunion special. But I couldn’t leave. I had to watch. Homer Simpson jetted through the dining room chasing Ned Flanders with a red hot poker in his hand and a Duff beer in the other and I tried to follow them but was thrown for a loop when Jerry Seinfeld grabbed my arm and led me onto the set of Saturday Night Live where I punched Lorne Michaels in the face and begged Adam Sandler to retire from films. The host was Sarah Michelle Gellar and she was selling her last season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. I said no and ran out of the studio. When I came to my senses I realized that Jackie Gleason ran off with Jack Tripper and that lady from Murder, She Wrote was sprinting directly after me holding a Jack LaLanne juice dispenser as I dodged through the excess of 1-800 numbers and ”Only $9.99 if you purchase with a credit card in the next five minutes!”

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         Did we really need to have a countdown to the Pope’s death? Was the footage of the horrible aftermath of Hurricane Katrina really appropriate? I guess it is because every news channel dedicated hours upon hours of video recordings showing strangers’ houses buried in water and a stadium-size crowd standing outside the Vatican waiting for an updated prognosis on the Pope’s health. I’m afraid that you’ve been caught, collapsed, and sodomized by the culture of American television, a violent pornography of constant surveillance and intrigue until something else is on. Don’t worry; I’m not only the founder of this culture, I’m also a client. I was taking bets on the exact time, second, or day when the Pope would finally die. I was glued to the screen for the exceptional Hurricane Katrina footage so proudly broadcasted by the media that I forgot to call my mom on her birthday, take my Tombstone pizza out of the oven, and finish a midterm paper that was due in half an hour. It was disturbing to see Brian Williams, Barbara Walters, or Stone Phillips sitting behind their counters, trying to look sympathetic to the severe loses suffered by so many. But in actuality they’re only thinking about the rating battle between networks and how bigger and louder their cars and houses are going to be after the “News of the Day” is all over. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

         I was able to memorize the entire McDonald’s Big Mac jingle on an empty stomach and a brain that hadn’t slept in two days, Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, and cheese, all on a sesame seed bun! When the commercial was over I was no longer hungry because the TNT marathon of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit had just begun.

         I was there for the Michael Jackson trial, the Schiavo debacle, the end of Friends, the beginning of Joey, the start of Family Guy, the end of Family Guy, the return of Family Guy, the continuation of The Simpsons, the departure of Johnny Carson, the revision of The Office, and the end of Joey. This is only in a two-year span. I’ll be there for the death of Oprah Winfrey, the arrival of Conan O’Brien on The Tonight Show, the hopeful impeachment of George W. Bush, the cancellation of every reality show, Dave Chappelle’s return to Comedy Central, the return of The Man Show (with the original hosts), the moment when Jon Stewart finally says, “I fucking hate this country!”, the burial of the Fox News Channel, C-SPAN, and Bill O’Reilly. I’ll be watching when Los Angeles has another earthquake, this time separating the city from the country and allowing the government to place all the criminals, murderers, and rapists onto the island, forming it into a prison with no fences, guards, or food, just a take-no-prisoners mentality. It’ll be a reality show on Fox.

                                                        * * * *

         I remember there was this huge debate of whether or not cable companies should broadcast the execution of Timothy McVeigh on television. My answer to that is Sure, why not? They’ve already brought to life other examples of human life such as sex, drugs, and teenage dating; why shouldn’t they include murder to that list? It’s just as normal as driving cars, except in this country, if you run someone over you have to videotape the entire thing just so you can submit it to Real TV. Or better yet 20/20 and an interview with Barbara Walters where you can say that television fucked you head up into thinking that murdering someone would get you national publicity. And, before you know it, you have movie deals, a contract to write your autobiography, hanging out with celebrities and being invited to the Oscars where you sit next to Jack Nicholson and Sean Connery. Of course, before all this, you have to have a brief stint in a mental hospital where doctors study, test, and drug you out of your mind. But at least you were on television. It happened to William Hung.

         Imagine what would happen to Alfred Einstein if he had a television. Do you think we’d be missing something? It’s good to know that the east coast has an accurate idea of what the Midwest population must look like because we watch The Jerry Springer Show. It’s comforting to still have Guiding Light, Days of our Lives, and The Young and the Restless on during the day so housewives could continue wallowing in their depression.

         A friend of mine just bought a 57-inch television projector. He doesn’t watch television. He just thought that he should have a big screen because everyone else is ranting and raving about it. It cost him $3,000. That’s a down payment on a used car, a shopping spree at the grocery store, money that could’ve been donated to charity or sent to Somalia to feed starving children. I asked him what his favorite show was and he said reruns of Happy Days and Charles in Charge. These are shows that were cancelled when I thought Santa Claus was a real person and Mickey Mouse owned all of Disneyworld. Now he has a piece of equipment twice the size of me that took five men to carry into his two-story condo with a cluttered living room jam-packed with wedding pictures, two immovable futons, and shelves upon shelves of DVD’s that he hasn’t watched in years. But gosh, what an awesome TV!

         Every time I go over there I never make it to the second floor bathroom. I have to use the patio door so I don’t miss a single second. Of course, he never knew this. He always assumed I was going out for a quick cigarette but I was really slowly killing the flowers that his wife planted three days prior to my visit. When I asked him why he bought this monstrosity, he stress at me blankly like I just asked to murder his first-born and bury the remains under his flower garden. I guess the man doesn’t have a sense of humor.

                                                          * * * *

         I can’t stand this torture anymore. I want to have a life. I want to be able to fly a kite and not picture a cartoon character telling me to lift the string a little more to give the kite air under its wings. I want to the punch the little shit in his face and watch the birds fly over his unconscious head. I want to dance on the grave of Brandon Tartikoff and scream at his tombstone, “Ha! I beat you! I survived!” I know it’s possible. It only takes a little will power and strength to overcome these demons of desire and addiction. I can only imagine what it feels like to wake up and not have a remote control glued to my hand, being able to jog down to the corner store and purchase something other than alcohol and gossip magazines. I know it can happen. It’s like Chinese water-torture walking into my apartment and consciously hearing myself chant, “ESPN, TNT, and FX, it doesn’t matter what is on or what comes next.”

         The other night I was having a conversation with my girlfriend but got sidetracked because the Saddam Hussein trial was on Court TV. I watched as he became upset to the charges set against him that he stood up on his feet, roared his thunderous voice at the judge, and threw his hands in the air more times than an NFL referee. I didn’t realize that when the commercial break came on I agreed to attend a ballet, an art exhibit, and watch reruns of Sex and the City all in the same weekend.

                                                          * * * *

         We’ve lost the concept of family. We’ve lost the idea of freedom. We’ve lost it all. It’s over. MTV stands for music television but I haven’t seen a music video since I was thirteen. I don’t know who played in last year’s Super Bowl but I know I saw Janet Jackson’s left nipple. I don’t know who won the presidential election but I can tell you who was on the top of E!’s 101 Biggest Celebrity Oops list (it was the Ben Affleck-Jennifer Lopez movie Gigli). They have a channel for every little part of our pathetic lives that it’s turned television into the greatest resource for stupidity. There’s the Golf Channel, TiVo, Dish Network, ESPN 2, ESPN NEWS, Headline News, TV Guide Channel, HD, XM, On Demand, DVR, En Espanola (where available), Bravo, Outdoor Sports, Speed TV, the NFL Network, BET, Cartoon Network, VH1, History, Discovery, Biography, National Geographic. Have I lost you yet? I hope not because there are 950 more channels to go.

         We interrupt this broadcast to inform you that a foreign country has just activated an atomic bomb that will drop on U.S. soil around the end of the year. The outcome will be devastating. We’re predicting that the bomb will drop somewhere around the Idaho-Oregon border. Millions will die and the land will be useless for decades after. This will be a travesty of tremendous propor- wait, where are you going? Don’t you care about this? This is part of your country, why are you changing the channel? How about if I told you that they decided to blow up your satellite connection, you Comcast cable box, and your dish network, leaving you oblivious to the outside world and your only source of information would force you to, dare I say it, get off your fat ass and go outside. Possible exercise and show that America is not obsessed with television. The sad thing is it would probably take an event like that to spruce up the minds of the lazy and ignorant.

                                                            * * * *

         I probably haven’t persuaded anyone to turn off their television. I’ve wasted my time. I can sit here and ramble on about the downfall of our society and how television is ruining our minds but that would make me a hypocrite. I won’t lie to you anymore. I have the television on right now. It’s been on the entire time. I don’t know what’s on, nor do I care. It’s become background noise to me, a subliminal soundtrack to my life. I thought I was able to beat it but my friend just gave me her surround sound system with a polished 35-inch Toshiba with a picture so crisp it’s hard not to believe that it isn’t high definition. I hope you’re not upset with me. I’d like to tell you that I’ll turn it off but the new season of The Shield is about to start. There’s no way I’m going to miss that.