It's Called "Priorities," America. Look Into It. And Our Media...It May Be Too Late.

All right. Fair warning. I'm about to unpack the Snark. You know, I've really been Holding It In lately because I cannot tell anymore if it's Hormones or Generalized Malaise or The Lousy Economy or what, so I've just kind of tried to rein in my Irk and release it harmlessly in traffic or by randomly venting at Jared here and there or by taking a few feeble smacks at Sam when he's home (which is about 3.2 minutes a week).

But really, why have a blog if not for cheap therapy? Duh.

Okay. So. WTF has happened to The Concept of JOURNALISM in this country? Has the so-called Mainstream Media just tossed in the towel and become the effing National Enquirer/Weekly World News now? First, we were all held hostage by the goddam OctoMom for eleventy months. Now, I cannot turn on CNN or MSNBC or pick up a previously respected piece of newsprint without encountering yet another lurid piece of reportage on the (I thought) deceased "King of Pop." Despite his arguably sizeable contributions to a myriad of charities, this tragic figure was, first and foremost, an entertainer. One of considerable and vast stature, yes. One whose indelible mark will be left upon the music world, yes. But good heavens. Enough already.

Buried beneath the garish and sensational heap of details surrounding each and every minute bit of this story is the real news of the day: Nevada's Senator John Ensign, whose self-righteous condemnation of President Clinton is now laughable, had his parents buy off his mistress like a common prostitute; security lapses allowed covert investigators to sneak bomb components into 10 federal government buildings and reassemble them in restrooms; Washington, D. C. recognized same-sex unions, just to name a few. Did you miss any of these stories? If you did, don't feel bad. How could you find them? All the major networks, including the music networks, cable news networks, and entertainment networks ran nothing but stories covering the life, death, and more indelicate details of the pop icon. It was inescapable. In 1980 John Lennon, member of the Beatles, another major force in American pop music (and the peace movement, and the anti-war movent), was brutally murdered. I remember it. What I don't remember is this kind of media saturation. In September 2008, major American cinema icon and million dollar philanthropist Paul Newman died. There was nothing near this kind of broadcast coverage.

To be fair, in 1980, there was no Twitter, no TMZ, no Google. There was no burgeoning Internet; CNN had only been broadcasting for 6 months. And let's face it; like the Octomom story, if there wasn't an appetite for it, the media wouldn't give it to the American People.

What the hell is happening out there?

The news media gives more coverage to President Obama's ability to take out a fly than his ability to be a dignified statesman and tackle the problems facing the nation. On MSNBC.com a couple of days ago, I had the surreal experience of watching a panel discussion of whether or not the new Sacha Baron Cohen film "Bruno" would further damage the standing of homosexuals while a second reporter broke in with updates on President Obama's visit with Pope Benedict; at the same time the crawl trumpeted a death during the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and something about a cervical cancer drug.

Really?

Right now, on three news sites, (CNN.com, MSNBC.com, and ABCNews.com), there are, respectively, 4, 4, and 10 news stories on The Gloved One. This, eighteen days after his death.

Is anyone talking about North Korea? The two female journalists who were sentenced to 12 years hard labor in prison there? How about the fact that there are two senators (Baucus D-Montana; Grassley R-Iowa) already working hard in a bi-partisan fashion on a health care compromise, but both parties are trying to get them to quit?

Sigh.

The press took a Major Vacation during The Angel Of Death's administration because they didn't want to seem unpatriotic. They let him have a Free Pass and look What Happened. Now the press is just getting like a lazy parent who doesn't want to hear his/her kid whine and bitch and so feeds the brat a steady diet of junk food: Happy Meals, soda, Skittles, chips, cheezdoodles, and chocolate doughnuts. We're getting exactly what we want and we'll end up like that greasy-mouthed brat--sitting around in a fat-assed daze, not knowing what happened and looking for a quick fix.

Haven't we learned? There isn't one.

I Was On The Road Again, But Didn't See Willie Nelson, Just Some Other Puzzling Stuff We Can Chat About

Had a bit of a Hiatus there; contrary to Some Popular Belief, I am not nearly as Indestructably Valiant as I might appear. Quite simply, I ran away for a few days. Had to...re-centre. And now, to paraphrase Gloria Gaynor, I'm back from "outer space," and am ready to press on.

So...onward.

Musings from the Road Trip:

Passed a few Fireworks Places, and am once again struck by the signage for these retail outlets. So very...eclectic. FIREWORKS! they blare on the first line. Then, in rapid succession: KARATE SUPPLIES, SWORDS, KNIVES, STUN GUNS, PEPPER SPRAY! What the hell is going on at these places, anyway? I can just imagine the dialog going on inside: "Hey, uh, can I git me a box of them Roman candles and a pair-a those there nunchucks? And I'd like mebbe that taser, but I ain't sure about it." The counter guy says, "Why, go on out back with it, then! I think my nephew or his Rottweiler is out thar somewhars--jes' try it on one-a them!" Sigh.

Saw this thought-provoking sign on a church--can't recall the denomination--and I can't stop pondering it. It said: What you do is not as important as who you are. How do you feel about that? The odd thing is that I've seen the exact opposite sentiment (Who you are is not as important as what you do) on church signs as well. So I'm thinking and thinking about that sign. It kind of irks me. It really does. It gives all these Fake Christians carte blanche, as far as I'm concerned. You know what I mean, right? These holier-than-thou people who say that they're Christians, but then discriminate against gay people, kill doctors, and picket the funerals of soldiers who died in Afghanistan and Iraq to further their gaybashing agendas. Yikes.

Finally, on a lighter--much--note, upon returning home and finally sleeping soundly in our own bed, Rick forgot (again, it must be noted), to turn off the now-unnecessary alarm. We were rudely and annoyingly awakened by its cacophany. The following scene ensued:

Nance: Oh my God. Is that THE ALARM?

Rick: (turning to shut it off. Finally.) Yeah. Sorry.

Nance: Why the heck is it going off?

Rick: I thought I shut it off.

Nance: Well, apparently, you didn't.

Rick: I said I was sorry. You could have checked and shut it off, too, you know.

Nance: That's not my job.

Rick: I see. And nagging and hollering at me is?

Nance: Yes.

Rick: You're fired.

I've Got A Few Proposals (As Usual), But Still The Government Refuses To Let Me Make Americans' Lives Better.

Wow. This has not been The Summer of Nance as I had planned and hoped and wished it would be. After last summer being tres crappy due a frustrating litany of pain-therapy-pseudo-rotator cuff surgery-that wasn't, and having to put EmilyCat down, I vowed that the Summer of 2009 would be a self-indulgent Seasonal Romp Of Nanceness. Forget it. The lousy economy has hit the dept. as it has many other NE Ohio households, let's just put it that way.

I spend an inordinate time puttering around the yard, and when that's done, I plop in front of the television.

Are all of you aware that there is, literally, nothing on television during the summer?

Clearly, this is the next problem that the dept. of nance is needed to tackle. Despite changing my blog's tagline, I am still ready and willing to become a nonpartisan government department that will take on Any Urgent Issue and solve it with all alacrity, civility, and common sense. I firmly believe that American Television has become just such an Issue.

I already have a very simple plan that has been motivated, in part, by recent events. (And by "events," I mean, of course, "celebrity deaths.") Certainly I am sympathetic to the delicate nature of these passings. It would seem, however, that I am in the minority, judging by the barrage of news reports, "in memoriam specials," re-airing of past interviews, and constant on-the-spot reporter segments from hospitals, mansions, impound lots, you-name-its since Thursday, 25 June. It has clogged the airwaves and pre-empted what little programming there is. And, not to be crass, but celebrities just keep dying. That phenomenon, plus some other television proclivities I've noticed, have led me to make the following Proposals.

PROPOSAL I. The All Tribute Channel. (I was going to call it "The All Death Channel", but that was a bit much, I realized, even for me.) This channel could be reserved for all the celebrity memorial documentaries, interviews, autopsy report tracking, custody battle information, funeral red carpets, etcetera. That way, it doesn't dominate the rest of the channels, and the morbid amongst us can get their fill.

PROPOSAL II. The All Law and Order Channel. Okay. You all know how I feel about Mariska Hargitay. And I fell in love with Sam Waterston back when he played Nick Carraway in the film version of The Great Gatsby, and I love him still. But there are now approximately, by my last count, eleventy hundred spinoffs of Law and Order. And they are on thirty-five cable channels at virtually any hour of every day. Let's get organized, people! Put them on one channel, period. Sheesh! Not. That. Hard!

PROPOSAL III. Stick To A Schedule. How hard is this? There is absolutely no rhyme nor reason to what is going on, ever, on any given night on television. Last Tuesday, there may have been one show on; this Tuesday, there may be a feature-length film in that very same time slot. Perhaps the newspaper's television grid is correct; more often, it is not even close to being accurate. In despair, I flip to the Cleveland Indians baseball game to watch this last-place team lose yet another game. Or, to the Chicago affiliate to watch the Cubs destroy my life.

Are there any GLIMMERS OF HOPE? Yes. We here at the dept. love to indulge in what we term The Smartest Shows On Television. In no particular order they are:
1. Wipeout
2. I Survived A Japanese Game Show
3. The Big Bang Theory

(Sadly, watching Meet the Press makes me sad now. David Gregory is just terrible. Terrible. And have you noticed his awful, awful tie and shirt combinations? What happened, David Gregory? Why did you do this to me after I championed your cause so fervently? )

Anyway, present your Proposals in comments, and I'll see what I can do. Oh, and if you've got any good new nonfiction titles to pass along, do. I'm completely without reading material as well. There's just nothing to read out there! (When will Doris Kearns Goodwin write the definitive Mary Lincoln biography for me? When?)

Ladies And Gentlemen, Have I Got A Deal For You! The Dept. Tries To Jog Its Memory And Be A Little Reasonable

Scene opens in a brightly lit television studio. Audience is seated, and the stage is decorated to look like a living room with dark carpeting, dark floor-length draperies. Adjoining the "living room" is a counter area.

Applause sign lights; audience applauds and cheers wildly. TV product pitchman Billy Mays bounds in energetically, waves at audience. Cheers and applause intensify.

Billy: (incredibly loudly) Hi, everyone!

Audience: Hi, Billy!

Billy: (with the volume of an onrushing freight train) Do you want a box of shit in your house?

Audience: Yeah!

Billy: (with the decibel level of a U2 concert in your basement) Do you want to be self-conscious every single time you wear navy or black?

Audience: Yes! Yes!

Billy: (as if a tornado set off a gas main explosion in your utility room) Do you want to step in piles of regurgitated kibble and hair in your bare feet because you are the only one who can see them in the entire world?

Audience: PLEASE! RIGHT NOW!

Billy: Do you want to add hundreds of dollars to your budget for medical bills not covered by your health insurance just now when you can't really afford it?

Audience: WHAT A DEAL!

Billy: Then have I got the deal for you! Get a kitten! Right now, for a limited time offer, you can get a kitten--and all of the great features I just outlined can be yours, with these added bonuses. Stay tuned.

Audience writhes in their seats as Mays takes a break. While he is hosed down and shot with tranquilizers, the living room set is prepared. Several fluffy, cute kittens are released onto the couch.

Mays leaps into living room set. Audience releases one long, sustained "awwww" as he grabs up one adorable kitty.

Billy: These kittens have been on set for only three minutes, and look at the hair they've already left behind!

(Camera pans at swaths of cat hair on couch, carpeting, and along hem of draperies.)

Audience: (ad libs) Wow! Awesome! Incredible! Amazing! Never seen anything like it, etc.

Billy: (chuckling volubly) You'll be vacuuming two, three, maybe four times a day! And good luck on those draperies! Once those little cuties start walking along the back of the couch, they can leave a path of hair so thick that even an industrial Dyson can't suck it off.

Audience Member: (pointing) Ooops!

Billy: Yikes! Little Fluffy there isn't quite litterbox trained yet, is he? That's gonna go right down to the pad and maybe leave a stain. Well, just move a table or get a big plant to put over it!
Audience Member: (pointing) Ick!

Billy: What? I don't see anything. Let's move on.

Audience: Screech!

Billy: Ha ha! Yes, aren't they cute, folks? Look at the little sherpas, hooking onto those draperies with those talons and climbing all the way up! Wow! You've just gotta watch 'em every minute! And it's not like you can just put up a barrier, is it? Those guys can jump! Okay, moving on!

Billy moves over to counter area and takes a kitten with him. He puts it up onto the counter and wads up a paper ball, playing with the kitten as he chats with the audience. The kitten plays and looks vastly adorable the entire time.

Billy: Now, folks, (loud enough to be heard in Uzbekistan) HOW MUCH WOULD YOU PAY TO BE ABLE TO HAVE THIS KIND OF EXPERIENCE IN YOUR VERY OWN HOME?

Audience: (ad libs) Seven hundred! A million! Ten thousand! My whole fucking life! My kids!

Billy: BUT WAIT! REMEMBER: THE HAIR EVERYWHERE, THE YAK-UPS, THE LITTERBOX DUTY, THE TRAINING, THE LIFETIME COMMITMENT, THE DESTRUCTION OF YOUR HOME DECOR, FINDING SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF IT WHEN YOU GO AWAY, THE VETERINARY BILLS, THE YOWLING AND MEOWING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT!

Female Audience Member With Two College Degrees And Really, Plenty Of Common Sense, Honest: But they're so cute and furry! And cuddly. And I miss having a pet. Sometimes. Crap. Sigh. Oh, I know. Shit.

Female Audience Member's Husband: (takes out bottle of Captain Morgan, drinks entire contents then proceeds to stand up, take folding chair and hit self in head until unconscious)

Audience: WE WANT ONE!!

End scene.

Either Houseplants Are Like A Relationship, Or My Deck Is Like A Marriage Counselor...Maybe

Let me see if I can work through something here with all of you. Bear with me.

I've got these three houseplants: a Christmas cactus, a spiky Sago palm, and a newly acquired "lucky bamboo." Of the three, the cactus is the oldest; it's probably around seven or eight years old. Now let me be perfectly frank here, my track record with houseplants is consistent.

Consistently poor, that is. Oh, I mean well. Early in my life I tried to cultivate the Green Thumb and bought fertilizer, a plant mister...all that crap. People gave me plants with the assurance "Oh, trust me. No one can kill this plant!"

And I killed them all. Spider plants, asparagus ferns, African violets, you name it. Dead, deader, deadest.

But I digress. Back to my three plants.

All three of these plants, the cactus, the palm, the bamboo...well, you guessed it. All three were at Death's Door. The palm was a crown of brown fronds, the cactus was withered and red, and the lucky bamboo? Yellow-leafed and not so fortunate-looking. "Just junk 'em," said Rick.

"I'm going to repot the cactus," I said, "and give it one last try. See how it does outside for another summer. The palm, I'm just going to cut off all the dead fronds and sit it outside in the sun. If it sends up new shoots, then okay. If not, then it's over. The bamboo, same deal. I'll cut off the dead stuff and sit it on the patio table. If it dies, it dies. That's it. They're all on their own. I kind of hope they all give up because I don't want to have to bring them in over the winter and go through all this again. I don't have the space for them from October through May."

"Then just junk 'em and say the hell with it!" repeated Rick, the old softie. "I don't get it."

"Boy, oh boy," I said. "You'd better hope I never have to make a decision about putting you in a Home."

Fast Forward. Today I went out on the deck for a little sun and visited my thriving Sago palm which has four new uncurling fronds. A few steps away is my succulent Christmas cactus, greening up at the center and chubby with life. On the patio table is the Luckiest little Bamboo plant, already grown about a half inch. I made sure not to say a word to any of them, nor to let them see me look at them. My plan of Completely Ignoring Them seems to be working wonderfully.

Which makes me wonder.

Is this the Key To A Successful Relationship?