Vol.2 No. 79 December 21, 2007
The Bogus Economist
Clawed
My exclusive interview with Santa Claus was the most frustrating thing that has happened to me since I tried to pin down Vice-president Cheney on the fine points of quail-hunting. It wasn't that Santa isn't a great guy – he is – and his wife bakes pies like you couldn't imagine. It was that Claus is too nice. By the way, Santa isn't his name – it's a title that comes from the word Saint, as in Saint Nicholas. His real name is Claud (not Fred). He told me this was a source of irritation for him in grade school since the guys all spelled it “Clawed Claws,” which was depressing.
Claud was busy working when my plane landed near the Pole, so I was picked up by a little guy in a funny outfit who told me his name was Shorty and that he was an elf. During the drive to Headquarters, he confided there were labor problems due to a shortage of elves. To fill the ranks, Claus, Inc. was hiring dwarves and gnomes for the grunt work. This caused a lot of outrage since only a few of the newcomers could speak Elvish and even fewer elves could get along in Dwarfish or Gnomish. A movement was underway urging the deportation of all non-elves and the construction of a high fence around the North Pole.
Claud greeted me at the door of the workshop and ushered me into his spacious office. In one corner, there was a high stack of letters with a sign marked “War Toys” right next to another stack marked “First-Person Shooters.” Boxes of iPods nudged boxes of Blackberrys, Razrs, Chocolates and iPhones. Most of them were made in China.
The interview started off with my asking Claud what was the most popular request he was receiving this Christmas. He replied this depended on where the request was coming from. The letters he was getting from Third World countries primarily had to do with food and medicines while the ones from the industrial countries generally centered around large electronic products, GPSs and such. Government agencies asked for more accurate weapons, sophisticated listening devices and alternatives to water boarding.
When I pointed out this didn't seem particularly Christmas-like, Claud smiled. “Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but I'm in the business of answering demand. If kids want paintball guns and their parents want cases of bourbon, who am I to tell them what they should have?” Claus went over to the refrigerator and took out a diet Coke. “I've been the Nice Guy for a few hundred years and I'm not going to start being nasty now,” he continued, “Anyway, what should I be giving them?”
I glanced out the window at a couple of polar bears feeding quarters into the ice machine and suggested Santa Claus might be delivering more copies of “An Inconvenient Truth.” At this, Claud broke into a laugh. “Are you kidding? The last thing I should be is political. If I start sending out books by Al Gore, people will think I'm a Democrat and that would lose me Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and most of the deep South. I got into hot water before when I sent out some Al Franken stuff. Fox News reamed me out for not putting in more Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh. You can't get people mad.”
“But what about world peace?” I asked, “Shouldn't you push books about getting along and respecting each other?” Claud thought for a moment, then replied, “There's nobody who likes world peace more than I do,” he said, “but it's pretty plain that the people in charge don't really want it. If they wanted peace, they wouldn't start wars. There just was a report that Iran wasn't really planning on making nuclear weapons and you didn't hear any changes in the speeches, did you?”
“As far as getting along with each other, have you been watching campaign ads lately? I actually overheard a lady saying she'd never vote for Barack Obama because she heard he was a closet Muslim and his name rhymes with 'Osama.' Everybody's calling everybody names.”
I glanced at my watch and was astounded to see I had spent more than an hour with Claud and I was feeling guilty. I got up and thanked the old gentleman, but he motioned me back into the chair. “One more thing, Mr. Bogus,” he said, “this is off the record, but I have to deal with all sorts of people, not just the nice ones,” He then gave me ten minutes of some of the most shocking details about entertainment figures, politicians and sports stars I have ever heard. Naturally, I can't reveal any of them.
As I got back on the plane after being driven to the airport by Shorty, I reflected on what I had learned. Santa Claus was caught in a bind between what he really wanted for the world and a desire to please. I guess it's really us who determines what Christmas is – whether it's peace on earth and good will to men or endless heaps of merchandise. Santa's just going to do what we want him to do.
Merry Christmas.
-30-
The Bogus Economist © 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Vol. 2 No. 77 December 7, 2007
The Bogus Economist
Strike One
The writers' strike caught me flat-footed. On the one hand, I was a writer and so should immediately stop writing, even if I didn't write for television. If I stopped writing, moreover, I could omit sending checks to creditors and Christmas cards to people I haven't seen since the Depression. On the other hand, if I didn't write, the newspaper would stop supplying me with my bi-weekly supply of gruel and cracker jack, which they told me is the usual currency for columnists.
Gruel won. I posted a column and sat back to enjoy the spectacle of whole bunches of actors standing there with their mouths open and nothing coming out. That was the beginning of November. Now it's Pearl Harbor Day and I'm still waiting.
The reason actors are still talking is explained by the mystery of re-runs. Somewhere in dark back rooms are thousands of sitcoms, interviews and documentaries that have enjoyed their fifteen minutes (or two hours) of fame and been tenderly tucked away in cans, presumably forever, but are now waiting for another bow. The opening scenes of “My Mother, the Car” are as available as “Mr. Ed,” “The Munsters” and “Cheers.” The fact nothing new is being written is immaterial since the plots of the “new” shows are hard to distinguish from the old ones. Cynics say the same thing about news.
A country without writers, however, means a country without speeches. How can you have stump speeches when all you have are stumps? Sound bites will be toothless. How can there be “gotchas” with nobody to write the getchas? Since very few public figures seem able to put a sentence together without help from someone else, what's left when that someone isn't there? Without the ventriloquists, all you've got left are the dummies.
This, of course, brings us to the unpleasant question of why people with alleged intelligences have to rely on other people to tell them what to say. Bob Newhart had a terrific routine in which Lincoln's speech writer was trying to coach Honest Abe on how to orate the Gettysburg Address - “No, Abe, trust me, do the speech the way Charlie wrote it – it's funny.”
I've often wondered what would happen if somebody put “Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah” on the teleprompter. Would the immaculately groomed news men and women who are supposed to be journalists improvise their way through the crisis, or would they look right into the camera, smile their immaculate smiles and solemnly declare ”Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah?”
The Bogus Economist, not being a television writer, might find himself tempted to become one, cross the picket line and make a ton of money. This is a distant possibility. First, I don't have the stomach to write some of the stuff I use my remote to avoid. Second, I don't cross picket lines. Third, from what I hear, writers don't make a ton of money. The last contract in 1988, signed by writers who evidently had their heads in a dark place, gave them a pittance on home video sales. They don't want to repeat this mistake with e-commerce. Producers say they can't afford to pay any more since profits are down and everybody knows writers are greedy bums anyway. The net result is that nobody writes, nobody makes money and the forecast for broadcast quality is “probably much lower,” as if this is an easily achievable goal. I can't envision television getting much worse without the screens cracking.
One possible outcome from the writers' strike is a decrease in drama and news and an upsurge in “reality” shows, which require little scripting – or anything else, in my opinion. Fox, with “American Idol,” is in a super position if this happens, so I should offer the other networks – at no charge – my own ideas for reality scenarios:
1.“Potty Talk.” People are trapped in a bathroom and have to figure out ways to pass the time until help arrives. The situation gets worse when the toilet begins to overflow.
2.“Ants.” A picnic in the park becomes alarming as giant ants are released by stagehands. Various strategies have to be employed either to kill the creatures or train them as substitutes for the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
3.“American Idle.” A bunch of teenagers compete to determine which one can spend the most time doing absolutely nothing. Cots, hammocks, Tempurpedic mattresses and vibrating chairs would be donated by corporate sponsors.
I really don't see what's so hard about television writing, as can be easily proven by the above suggestions. In romances, all you need are a few “I love you's” and lots of groans and sighs. On a “talking head” show, the only trick is finding the right head. “Action” shows demand lots of fake blood and donated cars to be reduced to scrap metal. It's different in sports, where you have to use intelligence, crackling wit and humor:
“Yes, Chuck, he hit the ball.” “You're right, Bill. Look, he hit it again.” “I can't see the ball, Chuck.” “It went in the hole, Bill.”
“Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah.”
-30-
The Bogus Economist © 2007
The Bogus Economist
Strike One
The writers' strike caught me flat-footed. On the one hand, I was a writer and so should immediately stop writing, even if I didn't write for television. If I stopped writing, moreover, I could omit sending checks to creditors and Christmas cards to people I haven't seen since the Depression. On the other hand, if I didn't write, the newspaper would stop supplying me with my bi-weekly supply of gruel and cracker jack, which they told me is the usual currency for columnists.
Gruel won. I posted a column and sat back to enjoy the spectacle of whole bunches of actors standing there with their mouths open and nothing coming out. That was the beginning of November. Now it's Pearl Harbor Day and I'm still waiting.
The reason actors are still talking is explained by the mystery of re-runs. Somewhere in dark back rooms are thousands of sitcoms, interviews and documentaries that have enjoyed their fifteen minutes (or two hours) of fame and been tenderly tucked away in cans, presumably forever, but are now waiting for another bow. The opening scenes of “My Mother, the Car” are as available as “Mr. Ed,” “The Munsters” and “Cheers.” The fact nothing new is being written is immaterial since the plots of the “new” shows are hard to distinguish from the old ones. Cynics say the same thing about news.
A country without writers, however, means a country without speeches. How can you have stump speeches when all you have are stumps? Sound bites will be toothless. How can there be “gotchas” with nobody to write the getchas? Since very few public figures seem able to put a sentence together without help from someone else, what's left when that someone isn't there? Without the ventriloquists, all you've got left are the dummies.
This, of course, brings us to the unpleasant question of why people with alleged intelligences have to rely on other people to tell them what to say. Bob Newhart had a terrific routine in which Lincoln's speech writer was trying to coach Honest Abe on how to orate the Gettysburg Address - “No, Abe, trust me, do the speech the way Charlie wrote it – it's funny.”
I've often wondered what would happen if somebody put “Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah” on the teleprompter. Would the immaculately groomed news men and women who are supposed to be journalists improvise their way through the crisis, or would they look right into the camera, smile their immaculate smiles and solemnly declare ”Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah?”
The Bogus Economist, not being a television writer, might find himself tempted to become one, cross the picket line and make a ton of money. This is a distant possibility. First, I don't have the stomach to write some of the stuff I use my remote to avoid. Second, I don't cross picket lines. Third, from what I hear, writers don't make a ton of money. The last contract in 1988, signed by writers who evidently had their heads in a dark place, gave them a pittance on home video sales. They don't want to repeat this mistake with e-commerce. Producers say they can't afford to pay any more since profits are down and everybody knows writers are greedy bums anyway. The net result is that nobody writes, nobody makes money and the forecast for broadcast quality is “probably much lower,” as if this is an easily achievable goal. I can't envision television getting much worse without the screens cracking.
One possible outcome from the writers' strike is a decrease in drama and news and an upsurge in “reality” shows, which require little scripting – or anything else, in my opinion. Fox, with “American Idol,” is in a super position if this happens, so I should offer the other networks – at no charge – my own ideas for reality scenarios:
1.“Potty Talk.” People are trapped in a bathroom and have to figure out ways to pass the time until help arrives. The situation gets worse when the toilet begins to overflow.
2.“Ants.” A picnic in the park becomes alarming as giant ants are released by stagehands. Various strategies have to be employed either to kill the creatures or train them as substitutes for the Radio City Music Hall Rockettes.
3.“American Idle.” A bunch of teenagers compete to determine which one can spend the most time doing absolutely nothing. Cots, hammocks, Tempurpedic mattresses and vibrating chairs would be donated by corporate sponsors.
I really don't see what's so hard about television writing, as can be easily proven by the above suggestions. In romances, all you need are a few “I love you's” and lots of groans and sighs. On a “talking head” show, the only trick is finding the right head. “Action” shows demand lots of fake blood and donated cars to be reduced to scrap metal. It's different in sports, where you have to use intelligence, crackling wit and humor:
“Yes, Chuck, he hit the ball.” “You're right, Bill. Look, he hit it again.” “I can't see the ball, Chuck.” “It went in the hole, Bill.”
“Yabbadabbadoo, Yatchee Watchee, Umbaba, Umbaba, Yah, Yah, Yah.”
-30-
The Bogus Economist © 2007
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