Ravea
05-01-2005, 23:54
Heres something that i just had to write after watching my television yesterday morning.
Yesterday, I forgot why I sleep late. As a consequence, I woke up in time for Good Morning America, with Diane Saywer and Charlie Gibson. Between their pseudo-news "puff" pieces about a town with a funny name or rodents participating in watersports, they manage to squeeze in just enough actual current events to make the wider American public feel like they sat down with their Folgers and learned them some culture. In case you hadn't guessed, I'm not a regular viewer of Good Morning America, and no amount of live Garth Brooks performances is going to change that.
But, I guess I was feeling a little masochistic today. As I was bringing the channels down, one by one to channel four, so I could run the DVD player and kick off the day with a healthy dose of Roman Polanski, I heard something so earth-shattering retarded that I just had to stop at channel eight. Apparently, a friend of Laci Peterson's had a DREAM where Laci was laughing or something, and then she died. She's calling it a prophecy, and she's put out a book called "Witness." Her own face is on the cover, as if the concept of the publication alone wasn't enough of a wad of artless, self-serving exploitation. The book will be out on the fourteenth, though some stores mistakenly released it early. How do I know all these details? Because Good Morning America reported it as actual news.
I was too stunned to move. At that point, the obligatory black chick made some awkward segue to the weekend blockbusters, pointing out that Meet the Fockers had broken a New Years' record (who keeps track of this crap?) previously held by Cast Away. On the screen was a graphic showing the weekend's three top-grossing films, as well as how much they made. Meet the Fockers was in first, above Fat Albert, which was above Lemony Snicket's A Serious of Unfortunate Events--possibly the longest title ever. The black chick gave the New Years' record stat before deciding that Lemony Snicket was in SECOND place, not third. Since she wasn't corrected in the chummy conversational transition with Charlie, I assumed she was meant to say that. There couldn't be a mistake in the graphic--the difference in earnings was several million dollars. I also have too much faith in the human race to assume that the women can't tell the difference between the numbers two and three.
But wait! Could it be that the distributors of Lemony Snicket have ties with the abc company? No, impossible. Good Morning America is my honest news source. After all, when The Polar Express hit the theatres and was widely panned by critics, only abc, with its ambiguous ties to that same distributor, allowed Joel Siegel to give it the review it deserved--hailing it as a new holiday classic. Hmm. Funny how that happens.
But none of this compares to the utter shock, indignation and nausea that came with Diane's coverage of the tsunami crisis in Asia. Between interviewing cute orphaned children about how they like school and if the "big water" made a "boom noise," she deftly skirts any geopolitical issues that are too difficult for the majority of her viewers. She carefully neglects any actual news on the situation, giving me instead the shocking revelation that there is a big morgue and lots of people are sad. Holy damn, I never would have guessed. Thank you, Diane. Thank you for commissioning an army chopper, otherwise used to carry food and medical supplies, to take you and your news team to the places other cameras are not allowed. I'm not sure why there's a policy against filming in these regions, apart from the crippling emotional anguish in the brimming homeless shelters and the many families' wishes that their dead be left in peace, and that they themselves be left alone to mourn in privacy. I also don't understand why they bother keeping the policy enforced if they're just going to let the biggest celebrity journalist in there anyway. Like it's different if the images are only shown on the most popular channel, instead of all the popular channels. Anyway.
But what I saw next, which immediately preceded a commercial for tooth-whitening technology, left me in a catatonic stupor of rage and embarrassment for humanity. Some whiz kid in the abc editing room had decided to set MUSIC to home footage of the tsunami as it swept away dozens of helpless victims on the beach. A pounding orchestral score, dominated by timpanis, seemed to strike a resonant frequency with the surge of blood through my temples. And there, superimposed over the image, in huge blue block letters:
WAVE OF DESTRUCTION!
It feels like a promo for the next big Hollywood disaster flick.
So the commercials end, and they have dude in a suit telling you how to avoid fake charities that try to cash in on disaster aid for the tsunami. Who DOES that? How pitiful is it that we need someone to help us distinguish the real deal from the assholes who are bent on taking advantage of the last shreds of goodness in human nature? I felt like I could kill myself.
Then Diane spent a few more minutes with some blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish tourists. Forget the weird brownskins! Eew, brown!
Not that I have anything against the Swedish, of course.
Good day, and let the flames begin!
Yesterday, I forgot why I sleep late. As a consequence, I woke up in time for Good Morning America, with Diane Saywer and Charlie Gibson. Between their pseudo-news "puff" pieces about a town with a funny name or rodents participating in watersports, they manage to squeeze in just enough actual current events to make the wider American public feel like they sat down with their Folgers and learned them some culture. In case you hadn't guessed, I'm not a regular viewer of Good Morning America, and no amount of live Garth Brooks performances is going to change that.
But, I guess I was feeling a little masochistic today. As I was bringing the channels down, one by one to channel four, so I could run the DVD player and kick off the day with a healthy dose of Roman Polanski, I heard something so earth-shattering retarded that I just had to stop at channel eight. Apparently, a friend of Laci Peterson's had a DREAM where Laci was laughing or something, and then she died. She's calling it a prophecy, and she's put out a book called "Witness." Her own face is on the cover, as if the concept of the publication alone wasn't enough of a wad of artless, self-serving exploitation. The book will be out on the fourteenth, though some stores mistakenly released it early. How do I know all these details? Because Good Morning America reported it as actual news.
I was too stunned to move. At that point, the obligatory black chick made some awkward segue to the weekend blockbusters, pointing out that Meet the Fockers had broken a New Years' record (who keeps track of this crap?) previously held by Cast Away. On the screen was a graphic showing the weekend's three top-grossing films, as well as how much they made. Meet the Fockers was in first, above Fat Albert, which was above Lemony Snicket's A Serious of Unfortunate Events--possibly the longest title ever. The black chick gave the New Years' record stat before deciding that Lemony Snicket was in SECOND place, not third. Since she wasn't corrected in the chummy conversational transition with Charlie, I assumed she was meant to say that. There couldn't be a mistake in the graphic--the difference in earnings was several million dollars. I also have too much faith in the human race to assume that the women can't tell the difference between the numbers two and three.
But wait! Could it be that the distributors of Lemony Snicket have ties with the abc company? No, impossible. Good Morning America is my honest news source. After all, when The Polar Express hit the theatres and was widely panned by critics, only abc, with its ambiguous ties to that same distributor, allowed Joel Siegel to give it the review it deserved--hailing it as a new holiday classic. Hmm. Funny how that happens.
But none of this compares to the utter shock, indignation and nausea that came with Diane's coverage of the tsunami crisis in Asia. Between interviewing cute orphaned children about how they like school and if the "big water" made a "boom noise," she deftly skirts any geopolitical issues that are too difficult for the majority of her viewers. She carefully neglects any actual news on the situation, giving me instead the shocking revelation that there is a big morgue and lots of people are sad. Holy damn, I never would have guessed. Thank you, Diane. Thank you for commissioning an army chopper, otherwise used to carry food and medical supplies, to take you and your news team to the places other cameras are not allowed. I'm not sure why there's a policy against filming in these regions, apart from the crippling emotional anguish in the brimming homeless shelters and the many families' wishes that their dead be left in peace, and that they themselves be left alone to mourn in privacy. I also don't understand why they bother keeping the policy enforced if they're just going to let the biggest celebrity journalist in there anyway. Like it's different if the images are only shown on the most popular channel, instead of all the popular channels. Anyway.
But what I saw next, which immediately preceded a commercial for tooth-whitening technology, left me in a catatonic stupor of rage and embarrassment for humanity. Some whiz kid in the abc editing room had decided to set MUSIC to home footage of the tsunami as it swept away dozens of helpless victims on the beach. A pounding orchestral score, dominated by timpanis, seemed to strike a resonant frequency with the surge of blood through my temples. And there, superimposed over the image, in huge blue block letters:
WAVE OF DESTRUCTION!
It feels like a promo for the next big Hollywood disaster flick.
So the commercials end, and they have dude in a suit telling you how to avoid fake charities that try to cash in on disaster aid for the tsunami. Who DOES that? How pitiful is it that we need someone to help us distinguish the real deal from the assholes who are bent on taking advantage of the last shreds of goodness in human nature? I felt like I could kill myself.
Then Diane spent a few more minutes with some blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish tourists. Forget the weird brownskins! Eew, brown!
Not that I have anything against the Swedish, of course.
Good day, and let the flames begin!