There exists since, oh, the late 1960s, a genre of journalism best known, perhaps, as the smart ass school. It follows somewhat in the tradition of H.L. Mencken and claims as its godfather the late, great Hunter S. Thompson of Louisville, KY, who of course founded what today is known as gonzo journalism.
The wise ass school consists primarily of Thompson wanna bes who lack the talent, razor sharp wit and brains of the master. About all they have is what industry poobahs identify as "edge,'' which means we'll print your garbage even if you can't string two legible words together as long as it's patently offensive to a significant portion of the population. This, apparently, is how the Lords of Journalism intend to attract readers.
I came across a prime example of the school the other day when my good friend Michael Woolf recommended to me an article on The Huntington Post by some nitwit named Chez Pazienza, which you can peruse herein.
It is not a great work of art. Basically, his message boils down to this: I'm tired of the Woodstock Generation talking about itself all the time. Why don't they just die and leave me alone. All stated in about, oh, 700 words or so.
Far be it from me to argue with some little piss-ant whose greatest accomplishment, at least according to the short description accompanying the article, is his status as a Guitar Hero. Who could possibly argue with a credential like that?
Let me say, as a member in good standing of the Woodstock Generation, there's plenty to criticize. But it should also be noted that the only thing more boring than the Woodstock Generation extolling its virtues is subsequent generations trying to piss on the parade.
Every generation has its drawbacks, obviously. Who didn't get tired of Tom Brokaw propping up the Greatest Generation, a description that might have some validity as long as you aren't black, a woman, gay, speak with an accent or an Asian who happened to live along the West Coast in the early 1940s.
But the Greatest Generation has a claim, and that's fine. So does Woodstock. Let's see, my generation mobilized to stop an immoral war, started the ball rolling on equal rights for women, fought against racism, started the free speech movement on college campuses and produced music unmatched that people still listen to. And that's just a start.
Pazienza and his generation? Eh, not so much. What, exactly, have he and his gang accomplished?...I'm waiting...There's a couple wars going on. I don't see Pazienza mobilizing. I guess he's too busy playing Guitar Hero.
If this moron doesn't like it, fine. But here's a suggestion -- get off your ass and accomplish something, then you won't have to listen to us anymore.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
America is a strange place
So the other night the television is on and some show I never watch, CSI: New York appears on the screen. I'm too lazy to turn the damn thing off, and after a few minutes I look up from my newspaper -- for those who don't know, that's something we used to have made out of paper with printed words on it telling you about various goings-on -- and what do I see depicted but a headless torso hanging from a ceiling with blood, spinal fluid and what have you gushing from it like the Johnstown flood.
The rest of the show consisted primary of a camera-close examination of this poor girl's grisly wounds, which they, of course, manage to match to the grisly wounds once they uncover her decapitated head. It was not a particularly appetizing site seeings how it was around dinnertime but, hey, it's one of the top rated shows on TV so, being a First Amendment absolutist, I was content to let it go with my usual shrug.
Later that same evening I turn on Great Performances, a PBS show, featuring "Harlem in Montmarte,'' an interesting story about jazz musicians moving to Paris during the 1920s to escape racism. I'm watching with some interest when we arrive at a section featuring Josephine Baker, the famous ex-patriot chanteuse who, as many know, frequently performed sans blouse.
First, the program shows a poster of Ms. Baker au natural as the French like to say. But it's hard to see anything because someone -- the network, the station, whomever -- has placed a fuzzy image of some sort blotting out the region where her breasts should be. Later, when they show actual footage of Ms. Baker and her bouncing boobs, the view once again is obstructed.
Now, if people want to watch free-flowing innards ooze to the floor ala CSI, that's fine. I don't get it, mind you, but it's fine. But in what kind of world are we living in when gore like this freely disseminated over the airwaves while body parts maintained by a majority of the population must be covered up lest someone gets the vapors?
Then I recall that nitwit congresswoman from New Mexico, Heather Wilson, and others of her ilk, complaining bitterly when Janet Jackson's boob fell out during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXVIII. Wilson said it made her cry, as if she had never seen any before, for chrissakes, so now no one can see any unless you have pay cable, while free-flowing guts seem to be encouraged. You might also note that the incident occurred at halftime of a game where the general idea is for 11 guys to rip the heads off 11 other guys, but I digress.
I mean, you decide -- would you prefer watching gory dreck or a lovely woman's luscious body parts? Apparently America has decided, but I'll be damned if I can figure out the reasons behind the answer.
The rest of the show consisted primary of a camera-close examination of this poor girl's grisly wounds, which they, of course, manage to match to the grisly wounds once they uncover her decapitated head. It was not a particularly appetizing site seeings how it was around dinnertime but, hey, it's one of the top rated shows on TV so, being a First Amendment absolutist, I was content to let it go with my usual shrug.
Later that same evening I turn on Great Performances, a PBS show, featuring "Harlem in Montmarte,'' an interesting story about jazz musicians moving to Paris during the 1920s to escape racism. I'm watching with some interest when we arrive at a section featuring Josephine Baker, the famous ex-patriot chanteuse who, as many know, frequently performed sans blouse.
First, the program shows a poster of Ms. Baker au natural as the French like to say. But it's hard to see anything because someone -- the network, the station, whomever -- has placed a fuzzy image of some sort blotting out the region where her breasts should be. Later, when they show actual footage of Ms. Baker and her bouncing boobs, the view once again is obstructed.
Now, if people want to watch free-flowing innards ooze to the floor ala CSI, that's fine. I don't get it, mind you, but it's fine. But in what kind of world are we living in when gore like this freely disseminated over the airwaves while body parts maintained by a majority of the population must be covered up lest someone gets the vapors?
Then I recall that nitwit congresswoman from New Mexico, Heather Wilson, and others of her ilk, complaining bitterly when Janet Jackson's boob fell out during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXVIII. Wilson said it made her cry, as if she had never seen any before, for chrissakes, so now no one can see any unless you have pay cable, while free-flowing guts seem to be encouraged. You might also note that the incident occurred at halftime of a game where the general idea is for 11 guys to rip the heads off 11 other guys, but I digress.
I mean, you decide -- would you prefer watching gory dreck or a lovely woman's luscious body parts? Apparently America has decided, but I'll be damned if I can figure out the reasons behind the answer.
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