One of my favorite things to think
about is the media. We talk a lot about how much we're saturated to
the point that we're strangled and cut off from what it used to mean
to be human. We say that the Golden Age of television is bringing us
world class art from all walks of life and allowing for voices to be
represented that never were before. We don't really know what to feel
about it all because it moves quickly and everything about how we
develop is slow and reactionary. We at the very least think that it
speaks to the ever-obscure idea of “we.”
I've criticized the idea of “we” before. I usually state that “we” don't do shit, and that it's a small group of intentioned or riled-up individuals who enact changes with sometimes lasting consequences. “We” is often the scapegoat for when we didn't show up or put in the work. That's “we's” psychological utility. You know it pretty explicitly with your experience towards sports or maybe your allegiance to school or perhaps you're fairly patriotic and subconsciously have really taken in the ooo-rahs and chest beating of your native country. The mystics and homeopaths take it a step further and transform the we into things like a “collective conscious” that gets all sorts of powers as it gets “raised” or wishes hard enough.
In areas of moral ambiguity we rely on we. It doesn't have to be asked where the behavior came from or why it started, we're all doing it, so it's cool. One of my favorite observations of monkeys was them training new members in their group not to do something that no monkey in that current group ever experienced first hand. Say they'd get shocked trying to climb a ladder to grab some bananas. The first group sees the brave monkey get hurt enough times, spreads the word, it's now common knowledge. Slowly remove the monkeys that know and replace them with one's that don't, sooner or later, before a new monkey even tries to climb the ladder, the others will step up and slap him down.
When you think about the evolutionary origins of man and the endless amount of experiences species go through, it's a marvel that we ever coalesce into relative agreement at all. Me begrudging “we” when no two brains look alike but for the physical properties of the matter they consist of seems inadequate by itself. Of course, when and where there's reason to celebrate what “we've” accomplished, we should. It's shared goals that brought us our largest wonders of the world and allowed us to explore what's beyond it. And it's right there you come up against the important ingredient for whether or not “we” succeeds or fails.
You have to have a goal.
Despite what motivational posters or inspirational memes might try to allude to, a goal in and of itself isn't de facto a good thing. The angry tea-bagger's goal was to get you to suck on their angry nuts, and we're sucking away. The goal of the whole movement that “looked past” the magnificent show of bigotry, hatred, and incoherence was to appease their nerves and ideas precisely like a child will scream...and scream...and scream...until someone engages it. A constant refrain in the news right now is that democrats have “lost touch” with the “regular people.” One might muse about their increasing coziness with lobbying groups, or their smug bubbles of the kind of entitlement those happy white family shows that go on for way longer than anyone understands why. Their goal simply had little to do with a “we” that actually included those who felt they could play the game.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TV absolutely fascinates me. I don't see just wildly creative and nuanced depictions of life in every episode. I don't go through the best kind of existential crises that allow me to celebrate while reevaluate all of the fictional influences in my world or how they mock up against the real people in my life. It fascinates me because I want to keep watching. I want to see thousands of people come together and tell a story. I want to see fundamental truths about what it is to exist get filtered through Police-Doc-Lawyer-Firefighter drama. I want to see bravery in the face of dragons, murderers, and pregnancy tests. I want to see someone reliably do just what I knew they were gonna do, and I want to be shocked when they deviate. Before it's some medium that seemingly secludes and depresses us, it's a story box.
Maybe the problem with TV is less to do with there being too much of it, but that there's nothing else available instead of it. It's filling an immense cultural void. It's a void I constantly talk about in my angry finger-pointing about friends not pulling together to create their own show. How could they? Who's buying them the cameras, the lights, the food, coordinating the rehearsal dates, schooling the children, keeping sets clean and consistent and out of the hands of crazies and thieves? Who's the actual job creator and not just the brazen figure-head credited with endless empty lip-service? That's always who I wanted to be. It is my base desire to set the conditions, if I often fail at the standard, and watch the show of my dreams play out. And I've been absolutely stuck for what feels like forever.
I've criticized the idea of “we” before. I usually state that “we” don't do shit, and that it's a small group of intentioned or riled-up individuals who enact changes with sometimes lasting consequences. “We” is often the scapegoat for when we didn't show up or put in the work. That's “we's” psychological utility. You know it pretty explicitly with your experience towards sports or maybe your allegiance to school or perhaps you're fairly patriotic and subconsciously have really taken in the ooo-rahs and chest beating of your native country. The mystics and homeopaths take it a step further and transform the we into things like a “collective conscious” that gets all sorts of powers as it gets “raised” or wishes hard enough.
In areas of moral ambiguity we rely on we. It doesn't have to be asked where the behavior came from or why it started, we're all doing it, so it's cool. One of my favorite observations of monkeys was them training new members in their group not to do something that no monkey in that current group ever experienced first hand. Say they'd get shocked trying to climb a ladder to grab some bananas. The first group sees the brave monkey get hurt enough times, spreads the word, it's now common knowledge. Slowly remove the monkeys that know and replace them with one's that don't, sooner or later, before a new monkey even tries to climb the ladder, the others will step up and slap him down.
When you think about the evolutionary origins of man and the endless amount of experiences species go through, it's a marvel that we ever coalesce into relative agreement at all. Me begrudging “we” when no two brains look alike but for the physical properties of the matter they consist of seems inadequate by itself. Of course, when and where there's reason to celebrate what “we've” accomplished, we should. It's shared goals that brought us our largest wonders of the world and allowed us to explore what's beyond it. And it's right there you come up against the important ingredient for whether or not “we” succeeds or fails.
You have to have a goal.
Despite what motivational posters or inspirational memes might try to allude to, a goal in and of itself isn't de facto a good thing. The angry tea-bagger's goal was to get you to suck on their angry nuts, and we're sucking away. The goal of the whole movement that “looked past” the magnificent show of bigotry, hatred, and incoherence was to appease their nerves and ideas precisely like a child will scream...and scream...and scream...until someone engages it. A constant refrain in the news right now is that democrats have “lost touch” with the “regular people.” One might muse about their increasing coziness with lobbying groups, or their smug bubbles of the kind of entitlement those happy white family shows that go on for way longer than anyone understands why. Their goal simply had little to do with a “we” that actually included those who felt they could play the game.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
TV absolutely fascinates me. I don't see just wildly creative and nuanced depictions of life in every episode. I don't go through the best kind of existential crises that allow me to celebrate while reevaluate all of the fictional influences in my world or how they mock up against the real people in my life. It fascinates me because I want to keep watching. I want to see thousands of people come together and tell a story. I want to see fundamental truths about what it is to exist get filtered through Police-Doc-Lawyer-Firefighter drama. I want to see bravery in the face of dragons, murderers, and pregnancy tests. I want to see someone reliably do just what I knew they were gonna do, and I want to be shocked when they deviate. Before it's some medium that seemingly secludes and depresses us, it's a story box.
Maybe the problem with TV is less to do with there being too much of it, but that there's nothing else available instead of it. It's filling an immense cultural void. It's a void I constantly talk about in my angry finger-pointing about friends not pulling together to create their own show. How could they? Who's buying them the cameras, the lights, the food, coordinating the rehearsal dates, schooling the children, keeping sets clean and consistent and out of the hands of crazies and thieves? Who's the actual job creator and not just the brazen figure-head credited with endless empty lip-service? That's always who I wanted to be. It is my base desire to set the conditions, if I often fail at the standard, and watch the show of my dreams play out. And I've been absolutely stuck for what feels like forever.
I've been trying to understand what it
means to be a “high anxiety” type of person. Like, I know I'm
cool, but I've never been the cool kid
so to speak. Those people who's blood-pressure you might take while
their house is burning down and while their heart pumps at an even 45
they use the flames to light a cigarette. Not me. I'm cursing myself
for not having bought insurance and then the line of circumstances
that ensured I never really had the money to buy insurance, even if I
did, but it's a predatory industry, and the one time I tried it bled
me dry and yada yada yada my brain takes off.
That lack of cool though has never really held me back. I'm not afraid to stand up for myself, even if being a large and tall person helps. I take calculated risks like trying to run the coffee stand, or get 100 kids drunk under my roof, or spend the cash to buy land and figure out how to build a house. I keep making the inappropriate jokes, dance like no one's watching, karaoke the fuck out of songs I don't know. I whip my Deva Curled hair back and forth and I've ran around naked in public on more than a few occasions. You never get to see how slow or fast my heart is beating. If I am in fact a high anxiety type person, it shouldn't or doesn't matter.
That is, until now. Now I caught the feedback loop of anxiety about my plans and future and tied it to my cheater method of obtaining cash. Now, because my day to day is endless lounging and binging I have nothing that rips my mind away from my next screening appointment or thoughts about disaster back-up plans when I can't get it under control. In the most important sense the stress, the danger, and the consequences are all as fake for me as they are for a character about to get eaten by a dinosaur, but you'll watch someone get chased and worry about them every time even if you've seen the movie and know dinosaurs don't exist. My brain doesn't care. It's reliving the drama of the first episode of “Nerves” like it's stuck on repeat and someone locked the door to leave.
In that way, my brain fascinates me as much as any TV show might. Why are you watching? There's a significant argument that says I don't really have a choice. I don't begrudge myself for the amount of media I consume because the alternatives are to freeze, wander around, or adopt any of the behaviors one might associate with the awkward loner guy who's way too into conversing with you at the bar. I try to put in a fair amount of caveats when I'm harping on you to change something about whatever life you lead for analogous reasons. The difference is the imagination for the goal of alternatives.
Certainly there are actors that take roles to keep the bills paid. The millions of terrible movies you've never heard of that exist for that reason, and it's why you get to make fun of “tough guys” from a classic blockbuster who appeared overseas hocking candy in a colorful outfit. It wasn't a discussion about whether the role would help them understand themselves or inspire other thespians. It's still a business, you gotta eat. The problem is thinking of yourself in purely business terms. You can't just be a commodity to be priced and dressed and positioned for some insidiously obscure notion of “maximum effect.” By all means feed yourself, but keep going to auditions because you know there are rolls that we will talk about for as long as we survive.
Right now, my story may involve delivering pizzas or learning to be a bank teller. I may stock shelves or wash pets. I need to keep the bills paid, and if my brain wants to watch a stupid show instead of let me walk in and pick up a check for a few thousand and move on, then so be it. In my imaginary world where I get to create elaborate sets and cast brilliant inspiring people, I never wrote that it would happen without the montage of everything demeaning and distracting in between. The main character can be relatable for any number of reasons, but who says the negative aspects won't prove to be the most compelling?
And really, it's no more or less frustrating than the last forever years I've been resigned to my television screens. I know the story I want to tell. I know my goal isn't malicious or nearly as naïve as any singular profession or decision I make in service to it might suggest. I know how expensive it is to buy all the cameras and how much time it takes to set up the lights. The rest of the crew, cast, writers and producers though, seem to be on strike. Why would they want to watch my show? What about it couldn't they pull themselves away from? It's not even paying the bills.
I have a lot to prove. I still need to be much bigger and louder than I've ever been. What I expect out of myself will never die donning the “wrong” outfit getting paid more and less than anyone ever deserves. It won't taste any less sweet in my thirties than if I get it by next year. People won't need it any less whether they feel too old already or haven't gotten here yet. And I want to be able to feel the sense of pride and accomplishment that any show-runner must have to create a hundred episodes of something you think is absolutely terrible. Without that mission, that shared conception and goal, we're not even extras, as “extra” implies there was enough of something there to begin with.
Anyone got a better show in mind than mine?
That lack of cool though has never really held me back. I'm not afraid to stand up for myself, even if being a large and tall person helps. I take calculated risks like trying to run the coffee stand, or get 100 kids drunk under my roof, or spend the cash to buy land and figure out how to build a house. I keep making the inappropriate jokes, dance like no one's watching, karaoke the fuck out of songs I don't know. I whip my Deva Curled hair back and forth and I've ran around naked in public on more than a few occasions. You never get to see how slow or fast my heart is beating. If I am in fact a high anxiety type person, it shouldn't or doesn't matter.
That is, until now. Now I caught the feedback loop of anxiety about my plans and future and tied it to my cheater method of obtaining cash. Now, because my day to day is endless lounging and binging I have nothing that rips my mind away from my next screening appointment or thoughts about disaster back-up plans when I can't get it under control. In the most important sense the stress, the danger, and the consequences are all as fake for me as they are for a character about to get eaten by a dinosaur, but you'll watch someone get chased and worry about them every time even if you've seen the movie and know dinosaurs don't exist. My brain doesn't care. It's reliving the drama of the first episode of “Nerves” like it's stuck on repeat and someone locked the door to leave.
In that way, my brain fascinates me as much as any TV show might. Why are you watching? There's a significant argument that says I don't really have a choice. I don't begrudge myself for the amount of media I consume because the alternatives are to freeze, wander around, or adopt any of the behaviors one might associate with the awkward loner guy who's way too into conversing with you at the bar. I try to put in a fair amount of caveats when I'm harping on you to change something about whatever life you lead for analogous reasons. The difference is the imagination for the goal of alternatives.
Certainly there are actors that take roles to keep the bills paid. The millions of terrible movies you've never heard of that exist for that reason, and it's why you get to make fun of “tough guys” from a classic blockbuster who appeared overseas hocking candy in a colorful outfit. It wasn't a discussion about whether the role would help them understand themselves or inspire other thespians. It's still a business, you gotta eat. The problem is thinking of yourself in purely business terms. You can't just be a commodity to be priced and dressed and positioned for some insidiously obscure notion of “maximum effect.” By all means feed yourself, but keep going to auditions because you know there are rolls that we will talk about for as long as we survive.
Right now, my story may involve delivering pizzas or learning to be a bank teller. I may stock shelves or wash pets. I need to keep the bills paid, and if my brain wants to watch a stupid show instead of let me walk in and pick up a check for a few thousand and move on, then so be it. In my imaginary world where I get to create elaborate sets and cast brilliant inspiring people, I never wrote that it would happen without the montage of everything demeaning and distracting in between. The main character can be relatable for any number of reasons, but who says the negative aspects won't prove to be the most compelling?
And really, it's no more or less frustrating than the last forever years I've been resigned to my television screens. I know the story I want to tell. I know my goal isn't malicious or nearly as naïve as any singular profession or decision I make in service to it might suggest. I know how expensive it is to buy all the cameras and how much time it takes to set up the lights. The rest of the crew, cast, writers and producers though, seem to be on strike. Why would they want to watch my show? What about it couldn't they pull themselves away from? It's not even paying the bills.
I have a lot to prove. I still need to be much bigger and louder than I've ever been. What I expect out of myself will never die donning the “wrong” outfit getting paid more and less than anyone ever deserves. It won't taste any less sweet in my thirties than if I get it by next year. People won't need it any less whether they feel too old already or haven't gotten here yet. And I want to be able to feel the sense of pride and accomplishment that any show-runner must have to create a hundred episodes of something you think is absolutely terrible. Without that mission, that shared conception and goal, we're not even extras, as “extra” implies there was enough of something there to begin with.
Anyone got a better show in mind than mine?
