Tragedy Porn

There may be no more horrifying teaser than, "Tonight -- a two-hour Extreme Home Makeover." This "wholesome" show, in which a freshly traumatized family wins an insta-McMansion, is actually a revolting display of "reality" TV at its most false...and exploitive.

Consider the poor sods who have lost their family matriarch, spawned a mental cripple, been denied payment for an amputated limb, or gotten screwed by the local contractor. Are they deserving of a new dwelling? Of course. But first, they must endure today's most insidious device: the on-camera confessional.

Go ahead. Count how long the EHM lens lingers on the quivering, melted faces of distraught family members choking out their pain. All the while ABC happily counts its Sears money, hoping that millions continue to watch at home, chewing their schadenfreude-flavored cud.

Arguably more painful to watch -- and certainly more painful to listen to -- is the show's raspy, shrieking ring-leader, Ty Pennington. This bullhorn-toting madman, who occasionally moonlights as a spokesperson for an ADD drug (isn't he a walking advertisement for its lack of efficacy?) flies around the construction site as if nails are in his nads. He goads. He prods. He cajoles. He cares, dammit! And, of course, he and his lovable crew speak in clichés by the pound about the "amazing" and "brave" people whom they serve with the piety of Jewish carpenters.

I am tired of the reflexive moral elevation patronizingly bestowed upon victims of circumstance. Sometimes, the dying aren't brave. They're just dying. And for that matter, most of us do not need to have suffering pressed into our collective cornea to gain "perspsective" (another popular bromide of Ty's witless builders). Life gives us a daily dose, thank you very much.

If the hacks behind Extreme Home Makeover were truly interested in filming reality, they would observe the grim faces of the neighbors slightly out of camera range (behind Ty's belching, ozone-destroying bus) as they wonder to what lengths they would go for seven plasma TVs.

Her Annoying Holiness

Perhaps it is her perpetual invocation of “angels on earth.” Maybe it’s her honey chil’ patois fueled only by the presence of black guests. Possibly it’s her cameras-at-the-ready, “they need me” appearance at every international disaster (at least, the ones covered by ABC News). Or could it be her shameless, bug-eyed, bitten-by-rabid-squirrels studio audience?

For these and dozens of other reasons, Oprah must be sent away, camera-less, Steadman-less.

Living the Dream in the Big Apple

You live in Coffeyville, Kansas. Save for the occasional dip into Oklahoma, you've never set foot outside of the state. But that is about to change.

You've gathered the requisite funds for a three-day stay in New York City. The possibilities are endless. But you have a dream that extends well beyond Broadway, the Met or the splendor of Central Park. Television is your muse. You were born for it. And though a neophyte, you head straight for the media mecca, Rockefeller Center.

It is raining, but you don't care. The ink on your pithy, home-crafted poster runs, but you don't care. Elbows are in your face, but you don't care. You are in the presence of Al Roker.

And so what if your fellow screaming cattle keep you slightly outside of Al's immediate orbit. So what if Matt Lauer's contract has a stay-inside-during-inclement-weather clause. So what if the on-air "talent" would sooner spit on you than share a dialogue when the cameras are off.

Clearly a quarter of your face was visible! And methinks your caterwauling about Bobby Sue's birthday was audible. Kudos to you. You've made the big-time.