I was all set to make a joke about this little tidbit I read on Gawker.com the other day about a prospective art reality show (for serious?!) starring Sarah Jessica Parker (for serious again?!) as the host. And the joke I was going to make, with more appropriate phrasing (naturally) was about the title of the show. This is as far as my inner monologue got:
"An art show? Who the hell would watch that? What will they call that show, 'Watching Paint Dry'? Oh my Zod, that's funny! I should totally bloggerize about th-... uh oh, the phone is ringing. I hope this isn't A-Rod again. Oh, great. It's from 561 area code. It is A-Rod. Again."
Seriously, who the hell wants to watch a painter paint or a sculptor sculpt? Most of the time, I'm not interested in the finished product, let alone the process involved in making it. I like my art like I like my women: simple, clean, mostly white, squarish, and mounted on a wooden easel in the corner where she/it can be easily ignored. I mean, maybe, maybe, if we were talking some kind of medieval reality show where the challenge was to paint a cathedral ceiling every week, and the losers got pushed off their scaffoldings... maybe then I'd be tempted to watch. MAYBE.
As if television isn't stupid enough for having reality shows about cooking. Hello? Cooking? On television? Last time I checked, none of the audience can taste or smell the food - experiences which, I am told, are intrinsic to judging whether or not said cooking is actually any good - through their television, no matter how high-definition you make it. I find the whole concept of the Food Network almost utterly baffling as I find the odd, mannish charm of Fred Flinstone.
Anyway, sadly for me, Gawker beat me to the punchline.
I blame Alex Rodriguez, or, as I have recently taken to calling him, "I've been working on the railroad all the livelong day-Rod."
You would not BELIEVE the hysterical phone calls I've been getting from this "guy" lately. The 561 area code is somewhere in Florida, where Mr. Rod is supposed to be getting ready for February minicamps, and for a season full of high jinks both on the basepaths in the Bronx and in the streets of midtown Manhattan. Except that, instead of focusing on planning his wacky 2008 pranks, all Alex can talk (or rather, cry and squeal) about this entire month is fucking Britney fucking Spears fuck. What the hell do I care if she got carted off to UCLA for a mental evaluation? She never returns my calls anyway! Important bloggerizing is falling by the wayside here!!
I'm beginning to suspect that Britney is on the Boston Red Sox payroll for an undisclosed sum. I mean, think about it. That whole Taco Bell stolen base promotion during the World Series last year were Jacoby Ellsbury won free tacos for the nation? Tell me that doesn't have Britney's inimitable, cheese-and-hot-sauce-from-a-packet-covered paw prints all over it.
And now she's ruining my jokes too, thanks to San Tropez-Rod. It may seem like she doesn't have a clue about the impact of her lifestyle on her fans (I'm talking to you, Chris Crocker), but deep down, you can tell she knows. She knows.