Watch too much television and you will find, beneath the swirl of actors and teleplays and recaps, patterns so reliable they could serve as media lighthouses, guideposts to funnel you into the programming you crave at the moment. Fox shows tend to be gritty, whereas ABC and NBC peddle a blend of breezy and substantive. Showtime is a kind of petri dish where weird ideas germinate, and HBO–purveyor of Carnivale, my current fascination–is almost draining. Watching an episode feels like attending a seminar, you know? The one with the talkative girl in it who wears pants made primarily from hemp.
The benefit of having readership you see in person is faster, blunter feedback. Our discussions, according to Boo Bear, contain more servings of vulgarity than the USDA recommends. Pound Cake tells me the prose that fuels our evening talks borders on Victorian English. I don’t know what this means precisely, but be assured that prior to typing this I was busy snogging a toffer after giving a plate of crumpets what-for. Vulgarity is the topic for tonight. Before we dive into the subject proper, though, welcome to those both new and faithful. It’s been said our discussions aren’t easily accessible, so if this isn’t your first time here, congratulations! Medal’s on its way.
Believe it or not, “shit” appears in 14% of our discussions, and only 3% of the total post count falls into the “f-bucket.” Inexcusable, yes, but frankly these figures are a lot lower than I thought, with the 3% being a possible invitation to apply for sainthood, I suspect. What’s so compelling about these words is how they sound, the cadence they lend to a sentence. “F-bucket” or “fuckbucket”: which would you choose? The latter appeals to me because it rolls off the tongue. There’s a rhyming element to it, and the overall package is raw and punchy. But don’t worry–I’m sure we’ll either retain or lower these percentages, and the day when our discussions consist entirely of vulgarities is still far off. There just aren’t enough filthy adverbs.
Having said all we did on Monday, for the love of humanity there are certain offline activities to avoid. My soul may rest peacefully, now that I’ve clarified this point. Should we meet at some kind of Renaissance fair, ten or twenty years down the road, and you find me in full costume as Sir Dancealot, Lord of Song, you save me, understand? You print this shit out–you print this shit out on parchment, if necessary–and you remind me of our discussion.
Let’s switch gears tonight, with the holidays fast approaching, and talk about air travel, specifically the safety thereof. You flight aficionados will want to tune out, I imagine, because you already know all the stats that need knowing, and that’s cool. But for the rest of us–the Icarus, as it were–let’s gather ’round.
You’ve had this discussion, probably, about how flying is safer than driving. Despite all the data, some will invariably brush aside the stats, claiming that sitting behind the wheel affords a greater sense of control, which always seemed a little odd. I mean, seldom do you hear the same argument leveled against buses or subways, right? I know when I board mass transit, I don’t tell the conductor to scoot over so I can help out. Similarly, I’m not sure how much differently I’d fly the plane, were I in the pilot’s seat. I suppose I’d be all, like, “I know you guys wanted LaGuardia, but I chose Montreal instead” or “Oh, so don’t fly into the commuter plane. Got it.”
Others cleave tightly to numbers, swearing that planes are the statistically safest way to go. Here’s the thing, though, and it all boils down to chance, namely the chance of walking away from an accident. Say we’re all sitting in a modern automobile, encased in a galvanized alloy cage complete with traction control and restraints and all manners of air bags. This stuff isn’t there so we can magically avoid catastrophe–it’s so that when bedlam strikes, we might just emerge. Not so when we’re suspended tens of thousands of feet above ground. Sure, maybe that stray turbine blade decapitated you, but at least your tray table was in an upright and locked position. And do you really think your seat cushion is going to keep you afloat in 1,000 degrees Celsius? That plane crashes, we’re all fucking dead.
In summary, Southwest’s snack selection has been lackluster as of late.
Consider two people. Subject A fires up a video game about knights and wizards in a faraway land, then hits the eject button after half an hour. “Yeah, this is fun and maybe I’ll revisit it later,” he thinks to himself, “but right now this is just too weird.” Subject B clocks in 80-plus hours, successfully decking out his in-game leprechaun with armor fashioned entirely from fairy tears and the back hair of Poseidon himself, and shows no signs of stopping.
You might praise Subject B for doing what he enjoys, going against the grain, following his internal compass. There comes a point, though, when escapism costs too much. Extreme examples, to be sure, and the optimal point lies somewhere between these two subjects, but for now let’s return to Subject A.
Here’s where media self-consciousness kicks in, and it’s a conceit I’ve found fascinating recently. Say you’re sitting in a theater, watching a TV show, or playing a game. On the immediate level, you’re consuming the media, but how does the experience look one level up? How would it appear to an outsider? That’s where media self-consciousness comes into play. Certainly your choices shouldn’t be guided solely by outside input, but some external influence might help you better shape your media diet.
And what the public eye prizes most, I’d argue, is how closely the media sits to reality. Would the opening scenario change if the game were about counterterrorism or managing a presidential campaign? Add to this a positive valuation of the offline world, and the scenario changes yet again. Subject A fires up a game about political intrigue, then hits the eject button five minutes later, opting instead to go outside and toss around the ol’ pigskin. Slightly cooler, right?
You’ll be pleased to know that, in an effort to be more offline, this discussion was conceived on actual pen and paper. Only problem, I guess, is now I’ve got to re-type all this into Blogger. Foiled again–dammit.