hear that?

It's the sound of 50,000 comedians scratching a thick dark line right through the center of their very best material.  

Translation: Michael Jackson has passed.

It's been a rough year for those in the funny business.  Jokes about the economy are a little too on the nose.  The president is downright delightful.  And now Michael Jackson has died in a way so tragic, so unexpected, that each of us feels kind of like an asshole. 

It is awful.  If Kurt Cobain was the last nail in the Generation X "I have nothing to live for" coffin, Michael Jackson was the out-of-control van that joyrid through the entire graveyard, running over flower bouquets and upending tombstones.  

The worst part is MTV's hollow, fake memorial.  I would rather hear nails on a chalkboard than listen to Corey Feldman, Celine Dion, and Sheryl "Queen of mediocre cover songs" Crow call in and give their personal take on Michael's passing.  Especially since we all know that the last time they used the term "Michael Jackson" they followed it with some overused late-night joke involving little boys and ice cream trucks.  

If any of them were as influenced by Michael Jackson as they claim to be, than he did the world a serious disservice.  Posers. All of them.

Here's some advice: if you want a real Michael Jackson memorial, don't watch MTV. Go to VHI. Why? Because VHI actually gives a shit.  MTV may have made Michael Jackson what he is, and vice-versa, but VHI is the only channel showing Michael Jackson footage that isn't heavily edited for the purpose of fitting in deep thoughts from the lead singer of Fallout Boy.  

I can't talk about this anymore.  Just go buy Thriller on iTunes, okay?

Analyze This (and then think of a catchy title)

When I was reading the New York Times Fashion & Style section on the evening of the 4th of June (yes, yes, as I usually do, dear reader), I read something that if you've ever seen a therapist is worthy of concern, and if you've ever written about a therapist -- or, say, made fun of them in your standup routine -- is terrifying irony.

That would be Upper West Side writers groups. For therapists.  Yes, you heard me.  Therapists' writer's groups.  In the Upper West Side. You may now start running around screaming and purchasing vast quantities of duct tape.

So these women,

"Some with specialties in children, trauma, Zen Buddhism and the intersection of religion and therapy, have taken inspiration from their practices to write screenplays, short stories, novels and nonfiction books. [...] The stuff of therapy is not only a lot stranger than fiction but also contains the ever-unfolding narrative of life, with its pain and pathos, feats and failures."

And as the author of the article notes: 

"That is some rich material for a writer."

I am just going to come out and say what we're all thinking: no fair!

Seriously.  If we had known it was 'okay' to, like, violate the most basic ethical standards in the therapy book, we writers would become psychotherapists instead of the usual barista with no dignity. Or, like, administrative assistant with no dignity.  Or freelance editor. With no dignity.  

I mean, can you even imagine the material they have access to? The unfettered thoughts of dozens upon dozens of complex, human, flawed characters, pregnant with longing and emotion and quirky physical gestures?  

I gotta admit, this makes me kind of paranoid.  I need my therapist to be listening to me, not doodling "Eva. Twenty-something female and zany best friend of our fearless hero, Cappy." in her notebook.  I mean, who the fuck is Cappy?  Terrible name for a story's protagonist. Absolutely terrible.

Look, we've all had that urge to write about therapy sessions.  We've all had that Mindfulness class with the creepy disheveled British guy who makes weird sex jokes and references his gums' "salty patches."  But we don't immortalize him. Why? Because we have class, people.  

Now if you'll excuse me, I have an Intro to Psych class to enroll in.  There's no way I'm letting those women steal my nugget of the Neurotic and Yet Realistic and Complex Character gold mine.  

the two second game of life

So like many of you, I started watching "Jon and Kate + 8" the second it started becoming painfully and humiliatingly invasive of their private lives.  Not above that. Never said I was.

When I watch "Jon and Kate + 8," I am part of an entirely different commercial demographic than I'm used to.  Instead of sharing my viewing experience with Trekkies and 13-year-old boys (that would be syndicated Family Guy on Adult Swim), I'm ass-printing my couch with the non-ironic Mommies of the world. And probably a couple of hundred "What the fuck is this?" media academics.  

For me, this means finding out whatever nostalgic childhood favorite has been run through the TV Dinner mill.  You know, the thing that used to take enough time to foster family bonding (watching TV shows live, waiting for the bus sans iPod, "talking") but you can now do without having to look at or talk to anyone else?  

Come to think of it, an iPod might have changed my life back in second grade. Would those two rottweilers who chased me to the bus stop every day had seemed that scary if I had been listening to Milli Vanilli's "Girl You Know It's True?"  I guess we never will know.

Anywho, it seems that board games can now be enjoyed with the efficiency of a GM assembly line (sorry, I wrote this line before Monday).  It's not Monopoly and Scrabble, but Monopoly POW!  Scrabble ShaZAM!  And Boggle Stop The Ride I Wanna Get Off! 

For example, "New" Monopoly:

"Wheel and deal your way to a fortune even faster using debit cards instead of cash! All it takes is a card swipe for money to change hands. Now you can collect rent, buy properties and pay fines - with the touch of a button!"

It’s completely ridiculous. Everyone knows that the point of playing monopoly is to spend forty minutes deciding who the banker is, 25 minutes fighting over who gets to be the top hat, and 55 minutes devising complex property trading systems which usually involve the younger sister cleaning the older sister’s room and alphabetizing her comic books in exchange for play money. 

Luckily, science has not yet devised a way to make Jon and Kate ultra-fucking-awkward in less than five seasons. 

nostalgic for the age of three-camera

Before I begin this post, I want to share the first of a series I like to call "What I think is going to happen in the Gossip Girl Season 3 Premiere." 

Basically, when I took a stab at writing a Gossip Girl spec I had two epiphanies.  The first is that I am not skilled enough to differenciate between quality Gossip Girl writing and its cheesy parody.  The second is that the latter is way more fun.  And here we are.

Gossip Girl Guesses -- Series 1:

EXT. NEW YORK CITY

Audience is treated to a 3-minute montage of sexy teenagers, aerial shots of Central Park, and black-and-white footage of authentic new york hot dogs set to Keane's "Simple Things."

GOSSIP GIRL (V.O.)

Aristotle once said that “the roots of education are bitter, but the fruit is sweet.” Sorry, Aristotle.  Clearly you don’t know the Upper East Side, where sex is sweet and roots are a bitter pill .... parental roots, that is!  That’s right. Little pun there....

INT. LILY BART’S APARTMENT

LILY is sitting. LILY’S MOM comes in.

LILY

Go away, Mother. I hate you!

LILY’S MOM

What? But you didn’t hate me these last two seasons.

LILY

Yeah, well, that was before I started having extensive flashbacks to the 80s, where I looked completely different and you were that woman from Lost.  Things have changed, Mother! I wish I was more like my older sister!

LILY’S MOM

You mean the one we’ve literally never mentioned?

LILY

Yeah, what’s her name again?

LILY'S MOM

Who cares? The show wasn't picked up.

LILY

Oh, right....well, we should probably go see what Serena's doing.

LILY'S MOM

Who are you talking to?

END SCENE

I'm too lazy to do a proper tie-in, so something something something Gossip Girl something something something Golden Girls. Okay, let's talk about Golden Girls!  

Golden Girls has been of comfort to me lately. Maybe it's because another five potential hours of scripted TV/week is on the chopping block thanks to Leno. Maybe it's because I personally spend my evenings pumicing my feet and making homemade chicken stock.

Whatever the case, for the purposes of three-camera nostalgia there is nothing like the Golden Girls.  Not only is Golden Girls the warmest, fuzziest, most humanizing sitcom out there, but it takes place almost entirely within the confines of a conveniently "cheed out-able" living room. Unlike the Sex and the City girls, this quartet knew that they were getting geriatric.  Take that, Sarah Jessica Parker!

And things were easier then, too.  I was watching an episode the other day where the girls were breeding minks.  Breeding minks.  For one fucking episode.  Yes, it made literally no sense. Yes, the minks were immediately disappeared by the sitcom equivalent of the Thought Police.  But for twenty-four minutes of the Golden Girl universe there they were, being brushed and discussed in the Garage We Never See Again.

Things are different now.  Nowadays, writing a spec is like time travel. It's rad, but if you squash one mosquito you may end up never being born.  Or, like, changing the course of history enough that Bride Wars doesn't make you want to die slowly.  That last one would probably only happen if you, like, sneezed in a dinosaur's face.

In Sitcom World the stakes are equally high.  Everyone's either solving a mystery or adopting a baby or solving the mystery of the adopted baby.  Whatever happened to the days when you throw Brad Pitt on a soundstage and make him Monica's brother's Long Lost High School Friend Who Is Also Actually Brad Pitt?  

I don't know. Maybe I just really want to see Betty White brush Brad Pitt's hair.  Is that so wrong?