Sac Arrow
Touchdown! Greaser!
- Joined
- May 11, 2010
- Messages
- 20,343
- Location
- Charlotte, NC
- Display Name
Display name:
Snorting his way across the USA
So I was laid up on the couch, nearly immobile with the stomach flu for a couple of days. I was not in control of the TV remote plus there is nothing to watch on late morning/early afternoon daytime TV anyway. Okay let me clarify that, nothing for me to watch. Me, me, me, me. But it's not all about me is it. Well apparently not.
Imagine a trailer park setting. Except you never really see the trailer park itself, you just see the inside of two or three trailers. Maybe, on a rare occasion, maybe you'll see the wooden balcony of a double wide, usually at night under illumination of the bug zapper. Various denizens of the trailer park wander in and out of the trailers wearing tattered jeans and sporting tattoos of motorcyles, skulls and Mickey Mouse characters (both on the men and the women) puffing on packs of half smoked Camel unfiltered longs. None of them really seem to have a job, some are old, some are young, and there seems to be some sort of loose redneck pecking order, and they all are engaged in low key trailer park drama, like "Did you hear that Billy Bob is Sally Rae's sixth baby daddy?" and "Uncle Zane done got caught with the meth again."
At least, that would have been believable, given the rhetoric, dialogue, and story lines. But no, we're talking about people that, apparently have wealth, because very few have jobs and those that do work for some sort of police department except you never actually see them at work. So now who, in real life, spends five hours in the makeup department every morning, and squeezes in to a spotless, flawless Italian designer tux or a three figure ballroom dress, only to have breakfast on a Tuesday morning, in their own home?
Yeah, it was that show about lives and days or something, and it had like this hourglass filled with sand in it. I guess it was sand. It might have been blow. That would be an interesting method for cocaine QA/QC, just meter it through a glass orifice.
Even the bad guys, or a good guy who have scrapped with a bad guy, look like they have spent a half hour in the makeup department brushing a few hairs askew and smudging some mascara so that they don't have to spend another five hours fixing themselves back up for the next scene. And in those instances their dress is like the Gap leather shop, vs. Brooks Brothers.
And the drama, the stories, the dilemmas, are so obscure, that one presumably had to have spent the past three years watching all of the episodes to understand the plot. It's sort of like a point of pride, like, "If you would have followed the story line last season where Victor did.... then you would realize that...."
I honestly, truly, don't understand the attraction of soap operas. I guess it's one of those things where you really have to be in to it, and completely immersed in it, to appreciate it. Coming in stone cold sure doesn't work. It's sort of like being a meth addict, vs. tripping over one on the sidewalk. The whole thing was surreal, it was so entirely and completely un-relateable that it was almost like watching a WWE match where a massive caped hulk wearing a speedo drives a ZZ Top van across the ring dragging a coffin behind it. Which, by the way, is way more entertaining than watching some old lady in a ballroom dress pretend to get angered about something some old dude in a tux says in a Peanut's adult voice tone.
I'm not sure which was worse, the stomach flu, or the TV shows.
Imagine a trailer park setting. Except you never really see the trailer park itself, you just see the inside of two or three trailers. Maybe, on a rare occasion, maybe you'll see the wooden balcony of a double wide, usually at night under illumination of the bug zapper. Various denizens of the trailer park wander in and out of the trailers wearing tattered jeans and sporting tattoos of motorcyles, skulls and Mickey Mouse characters (both on the men and the women) puffing on packs of half smoked Camel unfiltered longs. None of them really seem to have a job, some are old, some are young, and there seems to be some sort of loose redneck pecking order, and they all are engaged in low key trailer park drama, like "Did you hear that Billy Bob is Sally Rae's sixth baby daddy?" and "Uncle Zane done got caught with the meth again."
At least, that would have been believable, given the rhetoric, dialogue, and story lines. But no, we're talking about people that, apparently have wealth, because very few have jobs and those that do work for some sort of police department except you never actually see them at work. So now who, in real life, spends five hours in the makeup department every morning, and squeezes in to a spotless, flawless Italian designer tux or a three figure ballroom dress, only to have breakfast on a Tuesday morning, in their own home?
Yeah, it was that show about lives and days or something, and it had like this hourglass filled with sand in it. I guess it was sand. It might have been blow. That would be an interesting method for cocaine QA/QC, just meter it through a glass orifice.
Even the bad guys, or a good guy who have scrapped with a bad guy, look like they have spent a half hour in the makeup department brushing a few hairs askew and smudging some mascara so that they don't have to spend another five hours fixing themselves back up for the next scene. And in those instances their dress is like the Gap leather shop, vs. Brooks Brothers.
And the drama, the stories, the dilemmas, are so obscure, that one presumably had to have spent the past three years watching all of the episodes to understand the plot. It's sort of like a point of pride, like, "If you would have followed the story line last season where Victor did.... then you would realize that...."
I honestly, truly, don't understand the attraction of soap operas. I guess it's one of those things where you really have to be in to it, and completely immersed in it, to appreciate it. Coming in stone cold sure doesn't work. It's sort of like being a meth addict, vs. tripping over one on the sidewalk. The whole thing was surreal, it was so entirely and completely un-relateable that it was almost like watching a WWE match where a massive caped hulk wearing a speedo drives a ZZ Top van across the ring dragging a coffin behind it. Which, by the way, is way more entertaining than watching some old lady in a ballroom dress pretend to get angered about something some old dude in a tux says in a Peanut's adult voice tone.
I'm not sure which was worse, the stomach flu, or the TV shows.
