Rerun Steff: Oh, Willie, oh, Willie, wherefore art thou?
So I don't want to deprive you wonderful people, but I can't write for another day or so. I have things to tell y'all, too, so that's a shame.
But here's a rerun. Steff-approved, but not re-edited for re-posting. Here you go. This is from last December.
Television: noun system for reproducing on a screen visual images transmitted (with sound) by radio signals or cable; device with screen for receiving these signals.
I've cut back on my television. I watch it, but selectively. For instance, reality TV is a big no-no in my little world. I find that some reality TV does indeed hit home with all you admire in people--drive, ambition, intellect, ingenuity, et al--and that's noble. Most of it, though, excels in the shallow and the petty.
Besides, good writing rocks my world. Plot, story, character, these are challenges to create, and there's no larger challenge than that of writing for an ongoing television series.
Television gets a horrible rap, really, and it's not entirely fair. There are those of us who move in "those circles" with the informed and worldly folk. We often deal with a lot of sanctimonious posturing by "those types," deeming themselves as morally superior because they don't watch the box.
Where do they get off?
They get off to a good start, thanks to broadcasting's commercial roots. Television has the distinction of being borne as art that existed solely in an attempt to sell to you. It's programming that's conceived, shot, and edited to accommodate a pre-set amount of pre-sold advertising. A 60-minute program is really only 45 minutes. You know what happened to those missing 15 minutes, eh?
Television is all about the commercials, and you have to admit that it's hard to take "art" seriously when it's followed by the latest $1.49 Big Mac deal.
Oh, but I know I'm lovin' it.
Credibility is the medium's problem right off the get-go. And now, in the ADHD Age, the trendy smart folk are all out there, suddenly swearing off it like it's the worst thing to happen to culture since Gallagher bought a watermelon.
What we really need are some strong-ass smelling salts to get the old Bard the hell out of his grave and back into the drama scene. Shakespeare could clear this right up. Seriously. Get Willie out of the ground and on into the year 2005, and I bet my ass Billy-boy would wind up with a 26-episode deal before the week was through.
Say, you know, I hear they're looking for someone on The West Wing.