My mother once told me that I must have been born with a copy of TV Guide in my mouth.
She confided in me that it has always been on the tippy top list of the many enigmatic episodes that has fleshed out my life character. As a toddler of two, one the first things that I’d reach for in the brown paper bag fresh from a neighboring Foodtown without failure of hesitation was the digest-formatted copy of TV Guide that was buried amidst the glass rumble of Gerber’s baby food and the tumble of giant cans of Similac breast milk formula. I had this uncanny knack for looking at channel listings. Remember back in the old days, (circa 1966) the listings used to be shaded in little black and white squares – the black squares were the local stations that you were most definitely guaranteed to recieve on those old bulky behemoths of television sets, the white ones signified the ones that you were mainly shit out of luck and had to most likely climb up on top of your grandfather’s roof in order to jiggle around the antenna. Before I could ever walk, I was flipping through pages and pages of tv guide magazines and comic books before I could ever learn to walk and before anyone in my immediate family knew – I was suddenly a walking encyclopedia of tv listing knowledge. My mom and my grandfather were always astonished that, as a three or four year old, I knew exactly what day and what time I could tune in shows such as Batman, Lost in Space, Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, The Time Tunnel, old Lone Ranger and Fantastic Four cartoons, and having practically a photographic memory of lost shows in my noggin such as Rat Patrol, Garrison’s Gorillas, and some funky Phillys Diller sitcom that ran on the same (Bat) time and same (Bat) Channel immediately right after Batman finished his time period.
There could be only one explanation on those perigenetic events – I must have been the lovechild of Marshall McLuhan. Nothing else would make sense
There’s no other plausible explanation. All I give a shit about in this world is everything as it applies to media theory, both artistic and aesthetic – although most of my working career has been spent on the business and behind in the shadows. As far as I have gotten on the artistic is the self publishing of comic books, of which I have written and financed publishing myself, contributing blogs, articles, and essays, and going way back to my last days as a high school senior, getting poetry published professionally at the ripe old age of seventeen. Most of my nine to fivers have been academically disciplined with odd bouts throughout my life of working as a office lackey in the advertising, television, and film industries. My pinnacles in life haven’t gotten past the boundary stage of a accounts receiveable clerk, tallying up box receipts, or of me spearheading my own office in the Sony Pictures Television offices making sure that syndicated episodes of Seinfeld were airing on time for two years straight or of the time many moons ago of spending a year being responsible for the small press area of Comic Con International .
But yet – I still seek enlightment in the absolute simpliest of terms. And it’s a calling I’ve been ignoring for a good number of years. In past blogs of yore, I’ve been experimenting with writing in diary form, the mundanes of everyday life, some that dealt with working within the comic book, movie, or television industry- but even that got boring after a while. Nobody was really interested in hearing about me punching in a time clock and hearing about what movie set I used to sneak on and watch was being filmed – and then post about it anonymously on some jacked up movie gossip website . Nobody was really interested in hearing what celebrity you catch throwing a tantrum in public or getting pulled over by the police for reckless drunken driving and endangerment. Nobody really likes a namedropper and nobody really likes to see you write in third person posting under a pseudonym of some hormone raging monk running around flashing his unmentionables under a loosely fitting tunic or even as a flowerpot making reference to old “Genesis” lyrics as it pertained to modern everyday paparazzi care free life. When I got bored of that, I handed the reins over to my comic book editor and he in turn revamped the format to a political mish mash of liberal and independent rallying cries and ad hominem attacks against the bible thumping Republican theologians who hypocritically operate under the thin-coated veneer of “family value” politics. Going off on my own, I started another blog experiment on the social media network of myspace, writing without fail, a weekly (and sometimes twice a week blog) blog concerning my everyday existence – of who or what I was dating, what financial clap trap I’ve fallen under, and personal family stuff. For the first three years of the five year length of that blog – it was the tumultous up and down (mostly down) relationship I had with a porn actress that scored the most acolades and won me fans the whole world over as I exposed this criminal I was romantically entangled with and was successful in thwarting her nefarious unlawful abiding schemes through a navigation of hand to hand combat, issuing arrest warrants, and dodging assassination attempts by her family members and criminal induced cohorts. And even as those numbers spiked me into “must read blog tv” martyrdom (some entries passing the over 1000 mark or logging in readership – I grew weary of that too. After she was totally vanquished and out of my life forever, I didn’t have the energy or the knack to contribute worthwhile entries on a weekly basis – plus the technology of the myspace hardware was going piss up and annoying me to even continue posting.
So the third time’s got to be the charm, right?
Another relaunch was called for. If the entire DC Universe can do away with Superman’s red velvetly smooth panties – I, with the aid of Sparky Santos can relocate to another web address and begin anew and gain more readership and adoration.
My blogs, this time around, is aiming for the equivalent of when you step off a bus stop in Los Angeles or New York and taking a complete panoramatic view of what is surrounding you. So begin breathing: Why are there neon lights flashing all around you provoking you to enter that gentlemen’s club knowing full well, deep in your gut, you’re nursing that ‘bad dog feeling” once the missus finds out? Why is that monster billboard above advertising that talking ape franchise that no one really cares about all of a sudden matters the world to you ? Why are there still comic book shops on the corner, but no Borders to speak of? Why are there buses and bus shelters advertising that stupid high school sing a long hour long show for your emmy consideration (seriously, why?) Why are people so oblivious to the world around them when their immediate focus of attention is whatever they’re texting on their smartphones or glued to a Harry Potter movie digitally downloaded to their atom-sized ipods fitted to the parameters of their palms? What movie studio or highly touted entertainment artist’s office are standing directly under? And why aren’t you jealous??
I’ll tell you why.
Because the message is in the media. The media that’s all around you.
It’s all I give a shit about. AND if I had my way, you wouldn’t walk out of here alive without you knowing the difference between a Live+SD and a Live+7 rating average before I throttled your throat with a cornucopia of all the things I CARE about.
Why am I so passionate about what is critically acceptable and not critically not acceptable in terms of regular television and pay per view television? Why do I hate anime with such a fucking passion? Why do I consider my progressive rock music to be vastly superior over your bubblegum pop and simplistic nursery-rhyme rap that you blast out your car woofers with tone deaf precision? Why have I become so dependant upon Nikki Finke’s deadline.com or Heidi MacDonald’s comicsbeat.com for my everyday entertainment news? Why do I still give a shit about comic books and cartoons- what’s the reasoning or logic of me smoking a pack of Parlies or a whiskey shot to accompany them? So many whys and not finding the proper time to explore the answers. From now on, I’m going to rectify all that.
You can expect the same fun tooting rhetortic from Editor Sparky Santos though. Political discourse and Japanese pin-up dolls never become a moot subject.
Prepare for the onslaught – unless you’re severly lacking a nose for news and opinion or a stomach for whiskey, then I wouldn’t blame you for not sticking around – but your company is mandatory just the same.
September 5, 2011
In the next installment – suppose you’re pounding the beat in some run down graffitti scrawled area of Compton (not that I would – but suppose I was ) and some media billboard company such as Clear Channel or CBS Outmedia erects a giant sign that reads: Jane Lynch – For Your Emmy Consideration in big giant neon letters.
Why should you give a fuck?