Reality Television and Cough Medicine

I am happy that I have only a vague idea of who Jon and Kate are. They have eight "somethings"--chickadees, I presume--but I'm not interested enough to really validate this feline hunch. As a reporter, I like stories with a little meat on the bone. Stories about nouns--people, places, and things. Granted, I think we have enough crime dramas, the reruns of which may run into the twenty-second century, but give me a character to care about. Give me a situation that scares the hell out of me or makes me mad. Give me a great location, something on the down-low, like Warehouse 13.

I'm not interested in Gene Simmons or his family jewels. Not interested in watching people ridiculed on American Idol. Not interested in who gets booted from the house or voted off the island. Not interested in who the bachelor will pick in order to use and throw away after the ratings are in. Reality TV was, and is, a bad idea. Bread and circuses for people who like to watch people suffer, moan, and cry. Fie. It has erased shows with genuine educational content, leaving TLC and the Discovery Channel with only an occasional bit of fare worth tasting. I was hoping that it would disappear, that it would be a flash in the pan, but alas, like rap music, it is apparently here to stay. Again I say fie.

And so I channel surf, trying to find out what's on the tube, reluctant to stay on the TV Guide Channel for too long, which runs all things Michael Jackson every second of every day. It's enough to make me look for old cold medicine with some codeine and sleep for sixteen hours. No meds? I opt for Charles Dickens or Mark Twain. They had characters and stories. They had something to say. Meow.