Monday, September 05, 2005
Will Someone Please Whack Geraldo?
Feeling "clear"
It’s been a Category Five kind of week.
I’m sure you all have been doing the same TV News tragedy tango I have—flipping between CNN, MSNBC and FOXNews. I’ve worked out a pretty good rhythm now and I can evade most of the commercials. I think it’s ludicrous to have commercials anyway. My wife has gotten used to me shouting from the family room, “The devastation of Hurricane Katrina brought to you by Mazda! Zoom Zoom!” in my official TV voice.
I guess everybody grieves differently. For my own part, N.O. is a great town and it’s absolutely heart-breaking to see people living and dying under such horrifying conditions. It’s also disturbing when you realize that our technological veneer is so fragile, and at any time we’re within hours of the third world. The Stone Age is always out there...waiting for us.
Even so, once the initial shock wore off I found my primary emotion became irritation at the newsvultures clearly trying to outdo each other. Is it cynical to think that program director is whispering to them through their earpiece, “tears on 5, 4, 3...?” They have their game-faces on, but underneath they’re loving it and mentally clearing shelf space for the inevitable CableACE award for broadcast journalism.
I was thinking of *you* quite a bit this week. I began jotting down dumb-ass sound bites newscasters were lobbing out, thinking I’d do a whole piece just on that. I have a bunch of Post-Its stuck to my monitor with various hambone phrases scrawled on them. Some of my favorite gems included “The Big Uneasy” and “Hell and High Water” and “(insert whatever...) of Biblical Proportions” plus “Hell on Earth” and the now infamous “Toxic Gumbo.”
My original intention was to have a contest to get you to send me your best sound turds. But then on Wednesday my dedication started to waver as I began noting other things I thought were equally odd. Like, did you catch the interview with disaster relief nurse “Misty” in the pink Victoria’s Secret cami with lace piping who looked like she was getting ready to evacuate people to the Hefnerdome? Twenty yards away a rat is gnawing on a dead guy’s ankle--and she looks like she’s going to hook up with Paris later at the Funky Pirate. What gives?
Then President Obvious popped by to roll his sleeves up and note that “It will take a long time to rebuild” and “if things aren’t going right, we’re gosh-darn going to make sure they do go right” and to talk about what a swell job everyone was doing. You could see him taking quick glances at his hand. High magnification reveals he had written “Declare war on hurricanes” on there with a Sharpie—I guess as a reminder...
By Thursday I was starting to notice a distinct lack of Jesse Jackson and Anne and I got into a big argument about what kind of food it would be best to serve in Red Cross shelters. She said individually wrapped sandwiches “like you get at the gas station” and I said “pancakes” for what I thought were some pretty good reasons. Mainly, pancake mix is easy to transport and prepare, requires no refrigeration, and it’s *comfort food*. I mean really, if you’ve just been airlifted off your roof after wallowing in swampy attic water for three days--which would you rather have?
Nevertheless, by Friday I gave up on writing about that stuff as I became increasingly fixated on Greta Van Susteren and how, if you stare at her long enough, she looks like Mrs. Potatohead. I went online tonight to get the correct spelling of her last name (oh yes, we’re sticklers for detail here) when I discovered a host of sites devoted to her bad plastic surgery and her association with Scientology. The picture I downloaded of her looking extra potato-ey was another bonus.
Then Geraldo arrived to dish up some righteous indignation down at the convention center. When he was holding the kid in his arms, sweat streaming down his grizzled neck cords, and shouted, “LET MY PEOPLE GO!” I knew I’d never be able to get that image off the back of my retinas. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin'...you’ve got lots of unregistered guns and lawlessness loose down there--and I’ve got virtually unlimited pairs of fresh underpants, bottled water, and pancakes here. Think about it. I bet we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.
It’s been a Category Five kind of week.
I’m sure you all have been doing the same TV News tragedy tango I have—flipping between CNN, MSNBC and FOXNews. I’ve worked out a pretty good rhythm now and I can evade most of the commercials. I think it’s ludicrous to have commercials anyway. My wife has gotten used to me shouting from the family room, “The devastation of Hurricane Katrina brought to you by Mazda! Zoom Zoom!” in my official TV voice.
I guess everybody grieves differently. For my own part, N.O. is a great town and it’s absolutely heart-breaking to see people living and dying under such horrifying conditions. It’s also disturbing when you realize that our technological veneer is so fragile, and at any time we’re within hours of the third world. The Stone Age is always out there...waiting for us.
Even so, once the initial shock wore off I found my primary emotion became irritation at the newsvultures clearly trying to outdo each other. Is it cynical to think that program director is whispering to them through their earpiece, “tears on 5, 4, 3...?” They have their game-faces on, but underneath they’re loving it and mentally clearing shelf space for the inevitable CableACE award for broadcast journalism.
I was thinking of *you* quite a bit this week. I began jotting down dumb-ass sound bites newscasters were lobbing out, thinking I’d do a whole piece just on that. I have a bunch of Post-Its stuck to my monitor with various hambone phrases scrawled on them. Some of my favorite gems included “The Big Uneasy” and “Hell and High Water” and “(insert whatever...) of Biblical Proportions” plus “Hell on Earth” and the now infamous “Toxic Gumbo.”
My original intention was to have a contest to get you to send me your best sound turds. But then on Wednesday my dedication started to waver as I began noting other things I thought were equally odd. Like, did you catch the interview with disaster relief nurse “Misty” in the pink Victoria’s Secret cami with lace piping who looked like she was getting ready to evacuate people to the Hefnerdome? Twenty yards away a rat is gnawing on a dead guy’s ankle--and she looks like she’s going to hook up with Paris later at the Funky Pirate. What gives?
Then President Obvious popped by to roll his sleeves up and note that “It will take a long time to rebuild” and “if things aren’t going right, we’re gosh-darn going to make sure they do go right” and to talk about what a swell job everyone was doing. You could see him taking quick glances at his hand. High magnification reveals he had written “Declare war on hurricanes” on there with a Sharpie—I guess as a reminder...
By Thursday I was starting to notice a distinct lack of Jesse Jackson and Anne and I got into a big argument about what kind of food it would be best to serve in Red Cross shelters. She said individually wrapped sandwiches “like you get at the gas station” and I said “pancakes” for what I thought were some pretty good reasons. Mainly, pancake mix is easy to transport and prepare, requires no refrigeration, and it’s *comfort food*. I mean really, if you’ve just been airlifted off your roof after wallowing in swampy attic water for three days--which would you rather have?
Nevertheless, by Friday I gave up on writing about that stuff as I became increasingly fixated on Greta Van Susteren and how, if you stare at her long enough, she looks like Mrs. Potatohead. I went online tonight to get the correct spelling of her last name (oh yes, we’re sticklers for detail here) when I discovered a host of sites devoted to her bad plastic surgery and her association with Scientology. The picture I downloaded of her looking extra potato-ey was another bonus.
Then Geraldo arrived to dish up some righteous indignation down at the convention center. When he was holding the kid in his arms, sweat streaming down his grizzled neck cords, and shouted, “LET MY PEOPLE GO!” I knew I’d never be able to get that image off the back of my retinas. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin'...you’ve got lots of unregistered guns and lawlessness loose down there--and I’ve got virtually unlimited pairs of fresh underpants, bottled water, and pancakes here. Think about it. I bet we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.
