Television Reality

                Steve Clark

I. Real

                A chronic depressive, Charley tends to exaggerate and
intellectualize his problems.

                "I walked into my apartment yesterday and the place was
a complete disaster. My roommate was passed out in bed, his
clothes were scattered across the room, and trash was piled so
high that it was falling out of the can. So do you know what I
said to him, Charley?" Charley sips his coffee. "I said, are you my
roommate, or Newton's first two laws of thermodynamics?"
Charley stirs his coffee with an ultra-thin brown straw. "What's
wrong with you, Charley?"
                "It's just that—I mean, you're a couple of months into
your physics grad program, everybody else has a job, or some
kind of plan, but—I—I don't know. I need to find something,
but all of the choices are just so—so—depressing."
                "Well, what are your choices, Charley?" Dudley leans
back in his chair, sips his coffee.
                "In college, I was real into psychology, philosophy, and
a lot of literature, and so I've checked out a lot of different
programs, but they're all so—specialized. I know it's good to
develop an expertise in your field, but most of these academics
seem so—cut off from all other kinds of thinking; it's like they
only believe in looking at things from a psychosocial perspective,
or a Freudian perspective, or—or whatever. And so they just take
summaries of Freud's Civilization to be what Freud actually
thought, so that they can say "from a Freudian perspective," or,
"A Freudian analysis would entail. . ."
                "Man, you've got the post-college blues bad. Weren't you
thinking about writing for a while? You've got the whole
depressed, haven't-done-laundry-in-a-month, unshaven look
going on; maybe you could make that work."
                "I thought about it, but all of these 'postmodernists'—
it makes me sick. These people are potentially crazier than the
academics—instead of reducing everything to one discipline,
these guys want us to believe that no theory will do—that the
world is just a multitude of perspectives where everything is
fragmented and one view is just as good as the next. After
reading these guys, for a while I questioned my own individual
existence, and then I realized that I was reading a bunch of
schizophrenics. Those are the options, Dudley. Schizophrenia
and autism."
                "Autism?"
                "Yeah. You're just getting into your program, so you're
not a complete bubble boy yet, but—let's say you're having a
sexual fantasy. What are you thinking about? How the girl
provides an equal and opposite force for each—?"
                "That—.s only a theoretical ideal—"
                "Right."
                "So just—go out and work in the real world, get a
regular job, no one's forcing you to be an intellectual."
                "The real world? Haven't you learned anything from this
conversation? There's no such thing."

In truth, the real world interests Charley tremendously.
He loves listening to rap, pop music and political radio; he
enjoys watching college basketball and pro football, and he
indulges himself in thrillers and self-help best sellers. In fact,
Charley often thinks of American culture as one creature, and he
wonders what the dreams of this creature would look like.
Charley experiences a complicated relationship with this idea;
while he does not truly believe that American culture exists as a
unified being, he finds that this model provides him with an
interesting way of interpreting American experience. He has
grown frustrated at his inability to find a medium for developing
this concept, and he especially hates the idea of an omniscient
narrator simplifying reality and relating his confusing, abstract
ideas.

II. Surreal

                "You can spend hundreds of hours and thousands
of dollars on psychoanalysis to discover that you have more
problems than you've ever imagined, or you can read this
practical book and apply it to your life. Let's face it; we all want
to live like the beautiful people we see on TV and in the movies,
and now you can! In the following chapters, I'll show you exactly
how you can re-create your life so that instead of functioning as
a janitor cleaning the bathroom of a public high school, you can
be Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, bringing the Force to a galaxy
threatened by the Dark Side!" —Excerpt from Dr. Philips' book
TV Reality: Moving From Boringville to Hollywood in 30
Days!

                Due to some negative publicity sparked by the "Killer
Coke" campaign, the Coca-Cola Company has decided to spare
no expense in finding a spokesman trusted by the entirety of the
Judeo-Christian world.
                Immanuel Kant stands on the beach wearing only a pair
of red swimming trunks, revealing his rigidly defined German
abs. "I know that we can't agree on moral issues all of the time.
But if there's one thing that all rational beings can agree on
universally, it's that nothing beats the taste of Coca-Cola."

                "I can't believe you're doing Frodo right now, Jack."
                "I'm not doing Frodo, sweetheart. I am Frodo"
Remember what Dr. Philips said about differentiating between
being the character and acting like the character? He says the
difference is—"
                "Vital. You know what's vital in this house right now?
Another adult to drive your son to his soccer game, to deal with
Gloria's whining, or, heaven forbid, to cook dinner."
                "Sweetheart, did you expect the ring to bring itself to
Mordor?"
                "Right, and Frodo had a cell phone to call Gandalf
every time he needed a deposit on his credit card."
                "Honey! You didn't tell me you were Gandalf! You know,
Gandalf wasn't sarcastic, and Dr.—"
                "I am not Gandalf, you midget half-breed son of a
bitch. Right now I am a very Desperate Housewife bordering on
Serial Mom so you had better get back here tonight or Judge
Judy will be sentencing you to some serious couch time!"
                "You can't be more than one character at a time, Martha.
You weren't complaining when we played Sex in the City last
week."
                "That was your idea!"
                "Listen, sweetie, I have to go because the dark shadowy
guy is chasing me, but I should have this ring in the fire in no
more than three or four days, depending on how much its power
tempts me. Hugs and kisses!"
                "Jack, you had better not hang up on me! Jack!"

                Come down to your local Nissan Dealer and check out
the latest model in our series of environmentally friendly cars,
the Liberal Guilt! We've got all kinds of words like "Hybrid"
and "Bio-diesel" plastered all over this car to ease your energy
crisis angst. The car comes fully equipped with a socially
conscious digital radio to give you the latest in Peruvian
Slam music and Haitian Punk Rock because we know that not
everyone has the time to start a revolution, but everyone can get
down with the sounds of third world social and political
upheaval.

                Doctor Thomas Philips lives with his wife and two
children in Media, Pennsylvania, and is the author of five other
best-selling self-help titles, including his most recent work,
Dropping Eating Disorders Without Picking up the Weight: An
Introduction to the Tapeworm Diet.

                "Son, come out of your room now, please!"
                "I can't, Mom! I told you, I'm conjuring magic potions!
God!"
                "Honey, you've been conjuring magic potions for the
past five hours, and if you don't stop playing with your magic
wand, it's going to fall off."
                "Dr. Philips says children don't understand sarcasm,
Mom. Plus it was your idea for me to be Harry Potter."
                "You're not a child, Jonathan, you're an adolescent—"
                "Harry."
                "Harry? OK, Harry, you're an adolescent. I know that
you're going to be naturally curious about. . . well, you know. . . but
my god, five hours?"
                "Mom!"
                "Fine, Harry, but when you're ready to come out of your
Chamber of Secrets and you're done playing with your Goblet of
Fire, your dinner is going to be cold!"
                "Mom! It's PG-13! God!"

                Right around the time Dale Carnegie was writing his
masterpiece of self-help literature entitled How to Win Friends
and Influence People, an up-and-coming pop psychologist
named Adolf Hitler was working on his own masterpiece, which
very well could have been titled How to Win Friends and Kill
Whoever You Want.

                "Dr., there have been a lot of questions concerning your
authority on the issues which you discuss in many of your
books. First of all, one man claims that your first book, Wahoo!
A Guide to Excitement, consists entirely of the interjection
"Wahoo!" repeated continuously for five hundred pages until the
final page, which simply reads "Get excited!" in a large, bold font.
He says that you encouraged a friend of yours to buy twenty
thousand copies on Amazon.com so that you could cite yourself
on the cover of your next book as a best-selling author. I have
your next work, another self-help book entitled AIDS: If You
Don't Have It, Avoid It, And if You Do Have It, Pretend
Like You Don't. Above the title reads the following: "From the
best-selling author of Wahoo! A Guide to Excitement." How do
you respond to these accusations?.
                "Well, Stan, it's probably just some young, ambitious
individual trying to get ahead by trampling everyone in front of
him, even if his climb to the top hurts the thousands of people
who have benefited from my books. Where is he now, huh?
Probably digging up some more dirt to send to the National
Enquirer so he can whore himself out again." (Cheers from the
crowd.)
                "To respond to your question concerning his whereabouts,
three weeks after documenting his complaint against
the book, we have been told that he has abandoned his former
identity and he now lives communally in the mountains of India
in a Buddhist monastery. He cannot be reached for comment,
not because we do not know where he resides, but rather because
he has taken an eternal vow of silence."
                "The book has received several positive reviews, Stan."
                "The only other place we could find the book
mentioned is in Maxim where one of the featured girls uses
Wahoo! to cover—"
                "Alright, alright, enough. Look, thousands have been
helped by that book, and thousands more by my other books. I
could stop writing"—gasp from the crowd—"but then who
would help the children?"

                "Yo yo yo, check it out! It's my boy Lil' Lim bustin' ya'll
up with some serious rhymes. He's got more game than anybody
right now and ya know why? Cuz he raps in limericks, ya'll!"

Ya know that I.m straight from the streets;
Just ask any one of my peeps.
I hook up with chicks,
Unless I feel sick,
Then I drink juice and get some sleep.

                "Honey, we need those!"
                "But Mom, you have plenty of bowls!"
                "You know that the glass tupperware is only for special
occasions, sweetie."
                "Oh so now I'm not valuable? You love these bowls more
than you love me!"
                Martha rolls her eyes. "Look, Gloria, that's not what I
said. Of course I love you. Anyway, on what TV show do girls
put bowls down the back end of their pants? Because I don't
want you watching that channel anymore."
                "Mom! I knew you wouldn't understand. You know who
does understand me?"
                "Who would that be?"
                "Jay-Z. And you know, Mom, Dr. Philips says that
children don't—"
                "Understand sarcasm. Yes, I know. Honey, Jay-Z?"
                "No, 'Honey' is Mariah Carey's song, that skank! I'm
Beyonce, and I need these for her booty! I have a date in—", the
doorbell rings, "—now!"
                "Gloria!"
                "Well, honey, you can't just—we've got to—those bowls,
you know—"
                "Sorry Mom, can't talk now, gotta run!"
                Martha hears a male teenage voice greet her daughter
downstairs in the family room: "Damn, Bootylicious! Shake that
glass, girl!"

                "There has also been some controversy about your
credentials. Research shows us that you received your doctorate
from a no-longer-existing university in a two-week online
program."
                "Just because I have more intelligent things to say than
these stuffy academics doesn't mean that they have the right to
judge me."
                "There has also been quite a bit of speculation about
similar universities that you have created since receiving your
doctorate."
                "What can I say? I love education."
                "The controversy stems from two graduates of your
doctoral program, one, an ex-convict who has been charged
with illegally constructing Adderall vending machines on college
campuses, and the other, a man who died in the 1850's who
experts believe received the degree through an ancestor intent on
honoring the deceased on an anniversary of his death."
                "If people are coming back from the dead, it must be a
pretty good program, huh?"

                The story goes that in college the President took an
Introduction to Poetry class to fulfill a Humanities requirement.
During one class the professor was explaining iambic pentameter
and he demonstrated the pattern of stressed and unstressed
syllables by saying, "Da dum da dum da dum da dum da dum."
In a moment of academic insight, the President grabbed his pen
and began writing a series of syllables in his notebook based on
what he believed to be a more interesting pattern, a simple
system that would ultimately guide his actions in business,
politics, and foreign relations. The pattern in his notebook that
day read:
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

III. Surreally Real

                "The question is, does the author ever escape
postmodernism, or is he doomed by it? Is this American
"dream" really just a dream of his own, an attempt to understand
his own subconscious? Is he a victim of the tunnel-vision of the
telos of television just as much as the rest of his society? Yes,
with your hand raised in the back? You what? You don't
understand why they call it "postmodernism?" You thought
"modern" meant now? No, modern means in the past.
Postmodern means now. Post-postmodern more specifically.
Let me rephrase my question. Is the author regressing to Jung's
outdated idea of a collective unconscious? What? This is an intro
class? You've never heard of Jung? No, J-U-N-G. Here, I'll write
it on the board. He was a modern, that is to say, he was an
ancient, I mean—he was part of the modern movement, but you
could perhaps label him as a pre-postmodern, but that's beside
the point. The point is—I mean the question is—is the author
escaping postmodernism into a kind of post-postmodernism, or
is he simply anti-postmodernism—that is to say, is he pro-
premodernism? What? These terms don't make any sense? Oh,
it's the end of class already? Well, for your reading—no, don't
leave yet, it's the weekend and you have reading to do, I have
some critical literature for you that might help to clear up these
distinctions—you what? You have beer at your dorm? You're
going to try to annihilate your consciousness? No, that's not
what Jung was talking about I don't think, I'll have to check the
criticism—"