My new favorite TV show that no one is watching and will probably get cancelled faster than Conan can move to Fox is "Better Off Ted". The most recent episode concerned a memo with a typo which launched the most foul-mouthed television show ever filmed - and not broadcast. These outtakes are NSFW.
Showing posts with label TV. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TV. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Gayest Show on Television - GLEE
In case you haven't seen it yet, do tune in. It's on Fox, no less. Rupert Murdoch doesn't really care where the money comes from, the extreme right in his news businesses, the moderate left (us) in the entertainment field. Just as long as, well, to quote from "Evita", "the money keeps rolling in, from all directions."
If they'd had sports like this when I was in high school, I might've gone out for some teams.
If they'd had sports like this when I was in high school, I might've gone out for some teams.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Contuining in a Musical Vein
Because it's my birthday week I'm not going to let anything detract from my enjoyment of it -- including the shenanigans of all those d-bags in D.C. who are now busy sucking up to a few rich queers in the hopes that the rest of us will fall into line, like good little lgbt boys/girls/others, and back the fuck off and shut the fuck up and kill ourselves, like in the good old days.
And right about now my attitude is that they can all go fuck themselves, the lying sacks of self-serving shit.
On a lighter note, I'm going to see "South Pacific" at Lincoln Center tonight. Here is a clip of Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza singing "Some Enchanted Evening" which is one of my earliest recollections of b&w television. This is from the days when these broadcasts of scenes from Broadway shows and operas were considered so culturally important that they were simulcast on all of the television networks, and paid for by one sponsor, to an estimated audience of over 80,000,000.
And right about now my attitude is that they can all go fuck themselves, the lying sacks of self-serving shit.
On a lighter note, I'm going to see "South Pacific" at Lincoln Center tonight. Here is a clip of Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza singing "Some Enchanted Evening" which is one of my earliest recollections of b&w television. This is from the days when these broadcasts of scenes from Broadway shows and operas were considered so culturally important that they were simulcast on all of the television networks, and paid for by one sponsor, to an estimated audience of over 80,000,000.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
A Gay Lolita
"Okay," some folks have asked me, "if you knew you were gay when you were six, name some of the people you had childhood crushes on?"
Alrighty, then. Time to visit the vaults. Only one of them was a real, everyday person to me. The others were all actors on tv.
Age 6: My 1st grade schoolbus driver, Frank. I wanted to be alone with him, but I didn't know why.
Age 7: Clint Walker aka "Cheyenne." Hunka-hunka furry, burning love. Again, I wanted to be alone with him... somewhere else.
Age 9: Will Hutchins aka "Sugarfoot." He was dreamy and soft and, well, kind of gay. Not at all like that Bear I was in love with at age 7.
Age 11: JACKPOT. Gardner McKay in "Adventures in Paradise." Man, did I want to be alone with HIM on that 3-masted schooner, somewhere in the South Pacific where nobody would ever find us. Forever.
Age 11: Peter Palmer in the movie musical, "L'il Abner." I sat through it 3 times on one Saturday afternoon. When I left the theater a blizzard had hit us and I had to slog home through 9 inches of snow. He later made a guest appearance on the Tennessee Ernie Ford TV show and I still remember what he sang. How gay am I? He really was a dreamboat.
Age 12: Sigh. Another dreamboat with a deep voice. Tom Tryon as "Texas John Slaughter" (a Disney series, no less!). I had seen him earlier as the monster/alien husband in the Grade-Z epic, "I Married a Monster from Outer Space", but I forgave him for that once I fell in love with him.
In all that time, sorry to report, I never once wanted to be alone with any woman I saw on tv or in real life.
Ergo sum... honey, I'm so gay I poo rainbows.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
Alrighty, then. Time to visit the vaults. Only one of them was a real, everyday person to me. The others were all actors on tv.
Age 6: My 1st grade schoolbus driver, Frank. I wanted to be alone with him, but I didn't know why.
Age 7: Clint Walker aka "Cheyenne." Hunka-hunka furry, burning love. Again, I wanted to be alone with him... somewhere else.
Age 9: Will Hutchins aka "Sugarfoot." He was dreamy and soft and, well, kind of gay. Not at all like that Bear I was in love with at age 7.
Age 11: JACKPOT. Gardner McKay in "Adventures in Paradise." Man, did I want to be alone with HIM on that 3-masted schooner, somewhere in the South Pacific where nobody would ever find us. Forever.
Age 11: Peter Palmer in the movie musical, "L'il Abner." I sat through it 3 times on one Saturday afternoon. When I left the theater a blizzard had hit us and I had to slog home through 9 inches of snow. He later made a guest appearance on the Tennessee Ernie Ford TV show and I still remember what he sang. How gay am I? He really was a dreamboat.
Age 12: Sigh. Another dreamboat with a deep voice. Tom Tryon as "Texas John Slaughter" (a Disney series, no less!). I had seen him earlier as the monster/alien husband in the Grade-Z epic, "I Married a Monster from Outer Space", but I forgave him for that once I fell in love with him.
In all that time, sorry to report, I never once wanted to be alone with any woman I saw on tv or in real life.
Ergo sum... honey, I'm so gay I poo rainbows.
Quod erat demonstrandum.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
David Chase Can Kiss My [cut to black]
Brilliant or uninspired? No matter what you think about it, the series Finale to The Sopranos on Sunday night, which I watched because the Tonys were so interminably boring, was completely unsatisfying to someone like me.
I need closure. I WANT closure. I like plays that have beginnings, middles and ends. This is referred to as "observing the Aristotelian Unities of Time and Place" which is just a fancy-schmancy way of saying that "it makes sense."
Sunday night's closing to The Sopranos did not make any sense. Oh, I "got it" that it was up to me to fill in the blanks, any way I saw fit. I "know" about art, and about how it's "all in the eye of the beholder".
But I have a hot flash for Mr. Chase. TV ain't art. It never was art and it never will be art. That "tv as art" boat sailed at the close of the 1950's when shows like Omnibus and The Bell Telephone Hour started going off the air, to be replaced by hour-long western anthologies and half-hour mindless sitcoms. And why was that? Because the sales departments of networks could charge more for a minute of a successful western or sitcom than it could for an entire hour of high-falutin' "art." That's why.
I have no axe to grind against Mr. Chase. I'm sure it was his best effort. But do you know what? The Series finale to Six Feet Under was 10,000 times more gratifying than whatever it was that I sat through last Sunday night.
I didn't much care for The Sopranos, either as people or as a television series, when it was on. I like it, and them, even less now.
And that includes the horse Mr. Chase rode in on.
I need closure. I WANT closure. I like plays that have beginnings, middles and ends. This is referred to as "observing the Aristotelian Unities of Time and Place" which is just a fancy-schmancy way of saying that "it makes sense."
Sunday night's closing to The Sopranos did not make any sense. Oh, I "got it" that it was up to me to fill in the blanks, any way I saw fit. I "know" about art, and about how it's "all in the eye of the beholder".
But I have a hot flash for Mr. Chase. TV ain't art. It never was art and it never will be art. That "tv as art" boat sailed at the close of the 1950's when shows like Omnibus and The Bell Telephone Hour started going off the air, to be replaced by hour-long western anthologies and half-hour mindless sitcoms. And why was that? Because the sales departments of networks could charge more for a minute of a successful western or sitcom than it could for an entire hour of high-falutin' "art." That's why.
I have no axe to grind against Mr. Chase. I'm sure it was his best effort. But do you know what? The Series finale to Six Feet Under was 10,000 times more gratifying than whatever it was that I sat through last Sunday night.
I didn't much care for The Sopranos, either as people or as a television series, when it was on. I like it, and them, even less now.
And that includes the horse Mr. Chase rode in on.
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