MTV is Horseshit May 8, 2008

People tell me MTV used to be cool. That it used to play nothing but music videos. I believe them. I never got in on that action because my Dad wasn’t huge on TV and we were discouraged from watching it. I’m glad we were, because these days my tastes in television are discriminating. Now, I’m not one of those obnoxious people who opens their mouth the second any show is mentioned to say “I don’t really watch TV.” I hate those people. I watch some TV. And I still have a functioning intellect.

Unless MTV has anything to do with it.

As lofty as I try to be with my boob-tube tendencies (”In Treatment”, “Weeds”, “John Adams” on HBO, “Planet Earth” on the Discovery Channel…okay you get it) a couple crappy ones have snuck in under the radar. I call “America’s Next Top Model” my “model crack” because I get a fix off it that would make any heroin addict’s eyes roll back in her head appreciatively. I’m definitely on the “Project Runway” bandwagon because that show is the shit, even if the contestants do tend to get into some dumb-ass drama for the benefit of the cameras. I don’t care, the clothes are pretty. 

I have no excuse for “The Hills.”

I have a scapegoat to blame (my roommate made me watch it in the first place) but lately I’ve caught myself throwing it on when said scapegoat is nowhere to be found. I watched recently with a couple of “Hills” virgins and our collective horror opened my eyes to what a bad trip MTV really has us on. Dead-behind-the-eyes, plastic surgified idiots who personify vacancy with chilling finesse gossiping about each other to the other soulless mannequins who make up their supporting cast (see: “Lo, Lauren’s friend” or “Stephanie, Spencer’s sister”). They should change the name from “The Hills” to “Idiots Talking Shit”. In expensive condos. And trendy restaurants. And trendier nightclubs. And outfits that cost more than my rent. And cars that cost more than my parents’ home is worth.

When I turn off the TV and my brain slowly emerges from its paralytic state, I try to think about why so many people watch “Idiots Talking Shit.” Rationally, I get it: we all like to talk shit, and we all wish we were rich–why not watch rich kids talk shit? But I fear there are far more sinister forces at work. After all, this “scripted reality” bullshit nightmare is on a network called: MUSIC TELEVISION. What the fuck? Where did the fucking music go? MTV might have started as music television, but it has morphed into something strange and damaging. And it’s unpleasant to contemplate just how many of us are hooked. Hell, I include myself in that statement. It’s time to throw away the dirty needles. No more “The Hills” for me. I’m walking away from the steaming, reeking pile of dung that MTV has become.

But I’m going to keep watching “America’s Next Top Model.”

The Real Emergency Room… April 24, 2008

The real emergency room is nothing like Grey’s Anatomy. In fact, it is disconcertingly hard to tell what’s wrong with the folks in the waiting area. There is certainly no one with a pole through their midsection.

The doctors do not look good in their scrubs. The lighting is not friendly. Everything is sort of languid and miserable. I watch closely for doctors running beside a gurney yelling instructions at each other while simultaneously discussing their love lives but am greatly disappointed. There is also no music playing to indicate whether I should be feeling sad, or scared or wacky and silly. There are just a lot of people staring dismally into space or speaking quietly on cell phones explaining to various co-workers and family members what is going on. Why they are stuck in a weird-smelling, earth-toned purgatory instead of going about Business as Usual.

I get so bored that I start inventing horrible, impossible scenarios about the gash in my boyfriend’s forearm. Maybe a nervous intern hit an artery while she was trying to stitch it up. And then they paged the chief of surgery who was trying to get his wife to forgive him for having an affair, and he said “I’ll be right back,” and she said “Don’t you walk out on me right now, Richard” and he said “I have to go!” and then they cut to a commercial.

I know that this is probably not the case. Michael is probably just sitting back there, waiting while the doctors attend to those in more immediate danger. He is thinking about the huge armoire with the glass doors that tipped as he was moving it, and about all the things he should be doing right now instead of sitting in the emergency room, and he is cursing his own stupidity–something I hate him to do because he does it with such vehemence.

A mother with two young boys in a double stroller settles wearily into the chair next to me. I look at her, then at the younger boy and then at the older boy and once again I try to figure out what is wrong with whom, but cannot. I’m guessing it is not the older boy, who looks to be about five, because he–unlike his mother–is in high spirits. Sensing this imbalance in mood, his eyes light up and he begins to sing her “Happy Birthday.” When he finishes, he starts again. His younger brother thrashes sportingly in his seat. As the boy launches into a third round, one side of his mother’s mouth grudgingly lifts into a half-smile.

“Is it your birthday?” I ask during the fourth round.

“No,” she says. The other corner lifts.

Michael comes out. I grab my purse and pop out of my seat as if spring-loaded, ready to gather him in my arms and restore him with my love. Then he tells me that he hasn’t even been seen yet. I deflate. My beloved further volunteers that the nurse told him not to come back and talk to me because he might miss the doctor. I plop back into my seat and tell him to get his ass back there. If he misses the doctor I’ll kill him