Monthly Archives: April 2009

A future bestseller is born

Over the weekend I attended the LA Times Festival of Books at UCLA, where I sat on a panel of writers to talk about traveling for adventure and making a living from writing, neither of which I know much about, to be honest.

I’d been dreading it for weeks, but once I finally got there, it turned out to be huge fun. Crowded hall, lots of laughter, and fine chat. I rapidly became quite addicted to speaking into a microphone, telling a room full of eager, attentive people a bunch of stuff I’d just made up, and sounding convincing doing it.

Interesting panel, too. The guy on my left was a journalist for Rolling Stone, routinely heading off to war zones and almost getting killed. The guy on my right nearly got killed in Australia when he was 19, swimming in a lagoon full of crocodiles. And I almost died a couple of times making a cable TV show. Actually, our little trio was so much fun that people assumed we went around together doing this all the time. Like the Three Stooges, only unfunny.

What was really interesting about guy number two, though, was that his wife had just left him, taking the kids back to Virginia, forcing him to sleep in his car. He told me this while we were waiting to go in. Worse, she’d persuaded him to quit his job a month ago to be with her. The instant he did, she filed divorce papers. So right now he has no work, no home, no family, and is carrying his world in a large backpack. He was understandably depressed about the situation, yet you’d never know it from listening to him speak from the dais yesterday.

When it came to my turn to tell the audience something, I chose a topic I really believe in: how you have to find your own destiny, chase your own dreams, and not allow yourself to be forced by teachers, church-leaders, or especially your parents into doing something THEY would like for you. As I was speaking, a woman halfway back stood up in anger and dragged her three children out the door.  One of the ushers outside said she stormed to a line of chairs, sat the kids down, and said, “You must never repeat what you just heard to anyone for the rest of your life, d’you hear me?”

Odd, because she sounds exactly like the kind of frightened, narrow-minded parent kids should never pay attention to.

How many people are now doctors or lawyers because their mother and father insisted they go to college and do something that would make the family proud? Now, of course, they’re desperately unhappy, but with responsibilities and kids of their own and they can’t quit.  If we had happy, contented lawyers in this country – that is to say, only the ones whose destiny was to actually be lawyers and who desired to seek justice, not the ones who are merely in it for the big house and the money (which is practically all of them) – I don’t think there’d be half the cases and law-suits that there are.

Once the panel was done, we were led outside to sign books – but fast, because they were serving free food in the authors’ lounge ’til five and we had to get there before they took it all away. The canny UCLA volunteer chaperoning us around said in a whisper that we should sign ALL the books on the table, whether people were buying them or not. Then they couldn’t be sent back and the store would have to keep them and sell them, no matter what. A-ha! So with that in mind, I grabbed every single one and stuck my name on it. Like a cat leaving its scent.

Once we were done eating, the living-in-his-car guy and I chatted in the parking lot about future projects. I said I was thinking of quitting writing to go out and live life for a while, gain some experience. He, for his part, said he was looking for a new adventure to write about. He had two ideas. Both sounded incredibly dangerous. So I suggested, “Why don’t you make this your chapter one: guy quits his job to be with his wife, who then serves divorce papers on him, leaving him homeless, jobless, and alone?”

What a great start to any book, right? From that point, throw a dart at a map and start your travels there.

And that’s how we left it. As he walked off, wearing his huge backpack – probably containing the entire contents of his car – I felt really sorry for him, but also exhilarated.

Whenever life has dealt me that kind of blow – and it has a couple of times – it’s always turned out to be the best thing that ever happened. I wouldn’t be in America now, for example, if I hadn’t lost my job, my money, my relationship, my home, and if my family hadn’t turned evil, my brother married the wicked witch of the north and cut me off, and my father been so ruthlessly and gratuitously nasty that it made living in the UK impossible. Thoroughly awful, every last bit of it, but look where it took me. Nowadays, I’m hugely grateful: I have a fine life in America with a new partner, new job, and money; meanwhile, my brother’s still married to the wicked witch of the north. Karma, she sure is a bitch.

We spent an hour on the panel yesterday talking about life and taking risks and having adventures, and the homeless author was actually living that. Horrible emotionally, but also a glorious opportunity, I reminded him. If he goes off to Queensland now and writes about crocodiles again, instead of chronicling this episode about his ghastly wife, who seems like the biggest crocodile ever, then it’s a total waste of an idea, as well as a complete contradiction of everything we’d been telling those people.

And, as I was also quick to remind him, bullshitting a crowd is my job, not his.

 

TV Swami – he say YES to making life an adventure.

www.cashpeters.com

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The most beautiful blockhead in the world

Nobody else is saying it, so I will. Levi Johnston, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin’s stooge son-in-law is cute. Monstrously cute. Almost Osmond cute in many ways, but without the obvious drawbacks of being sweet and sickly or a Mormon.

Cuter than an Osmond?

Cute as a button. But as an Osmond? You decide.

All of this seems to have been forgotten, however, in the current unfolding drama of… whatever he’s talking about.

Because, quite honestly, I have no idea.

Fatherhood. Condoms. Getting a lawyer. Visiting his stooge child. I picked up odd words here and there from his appearance on Larry King this week, but in truth I was so distracted the whole time by his looks – oh my God! – that, despite sitting glued to the screen for a prolonged period of time (allowing for the original broadcast and several rewinds on TiVo), I’m even now unable to fill in the blanks and tell you anything at all that he mumbled.

You do understand, I’m not expressing admiration for the guy when I say this, right? After all, he’s not a bright man, it seems. Nor is he articulate or terribly confident. And there’s a 99% chance he’s a staunch, unyielding, country yokel Republican, which to my mind is far worse than being stupid, and makes a person borderline Neanderthal, politically.

No, actually what I’m feeling is jealousy. I admit it. And a modicum of latent resentment. At the effortlessness of it all – his looks, his rise to prominence with no discernible gifts or talent, the opportunities being thrust his way to grab the limelight, say his piece, and tantalize viewers with that natural, casual, born-to-be-wild, hockey-playing, oil-field-drilling beauty of his. The fact that it’s all so easy for him. 

Damn the superficial media jackals!

That’s the problem with nice-looking guys: they don’t have to try hard to get what they want, the way the rest of us do. It all just comes to them. Girls drool and spread their legs. The cool kids want to hang out with them. Teachers, politicians, journalists, and voters make extraordinary allowances – “Awww, that Levi, he’s so darned cute – he would never just show up to a Republican Convention and promise to marry a girl merely as a publicity stunt or masquerade, when really they’re too young and the relationship is built on shifting sand and heading straight for the rocks.”

Cuteness is everything in this world. That’s just a fact. It’s a passport. It gets you what you want and where you need to be ten times faster than normal. Ask a stripper. Or David Archuleta. It’s also, apparently, a springboard to a slot on Tyra, where Levi looked like a porcelain doll, almost too perfect. It makes you a hit with magazine editors. Paparazzi fawn all over you. Publishers too. There’s a rumor right now that he’s writing a book.

Hear that? Levi Johnston is writing a book!  But of course he is. He’s cute.

And in turn, that level of media attention elevates your specialness still further, into a stratosphere of attraction you never even dreamed of when you were back on Alaska’s North Slope, knocking back six-packs with your hunk blockhead beer buddies.

I mean, this guy seems as dumb as an ox to me. If you believe the press, he’s a hard-cursing, hard-drinking, hard-hunting lug of debatable intellect, the kind of down-to-earth laborer you’d hire to fix your truck and mow your lawn (not because he knows how, necessarily, but because you want to sit at the window for an hour with a box of tissues, watching him try), but absolutely not someone you’d want dating your daughter, or your son, or sitting at your dinner table engaging in enlightened conversation about the futility of fighting in Afghanistan, or same-sex marriage, or the arrogant idiocy of killing animals for sport, or even the lengths shifty, self-serving Republican politicians will go to to lie and deceive and con the public in order to maintain a grasp on power.

Bottom line: in real life I wouldn’t waste even a second of my time chumming up with Levi Johnston. Nor he with me. And I won’t be reading his book. Nor he mine.

Yet, right now I wish I had a womb. I do.

Bristol Palin got it exactly right. You want a kid that looks like Levi. Someone who, when he/she grows up, will be handed all the advantages of life on a plate even if they turn out to have almost zero abilities and a potential single digit IQ, simply by virtue of their looks.

And after the kid’s born, I wouldn’t mind what happened. Levi could be a deadbeat dad, for all I care. That’s fine. In fact, from the little I know of him, I’d welcome it. Leave, go. Forget all this “I’m getting a lawyer and fighting for custody to stay in the limelight” stuff I’m hearing but not paying attention to. Just the knowledge that my child would be an exquisite specimen of humanity, combining Levi’s looks, his coy, gorgeous smile, his chunky physique, his unwholesome jock-attitude and roughneck backwoods style, with my…er….

Legs.

I have very nice legs.

….would be enough.

My world could end at that point. I would have done something good and useful and righteous, I feel. And also got a decent night of roughneck, backwoods dumb-as-an-ox sex into the bargain.

Make no mistake, my friends, that is what life is all about.

 

TV Swami – he say YES, YES, OH GOD YESSSS!!! 

www.cashpeters.com

Naked in Dangerous Places

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Aren’t you glad a Moron didn’t win?

 

What a crazy, unforeseen turnaround.

Only a few weeks ago, I was declaring that the final of American Idol would be nothing without Lil Rounds, and everyone else, except for Adam Lambert, was a loser who’d go nowhere and wouldn’t be missed. Well, I was wrong.

All too soon, Lil is no more. Voted off. Outclassed and outlasted by lesser talents: the guy who’s cute but in a sinister way; the sixteen year old with her hair on the wrong way around; and even that guy with the miserable mouth and the mole on his forehead that you wish he’d either pick off or allow someone else to.

The reason for Lil’s expulsion? Inauthenticity. Week after week she was trying to be something she wasn’t. Relevant, cool, a star, a diva – nobody was sure, not even her, I suspect. All she had to be was the pre- Idol Lil – down to earth, raunchy, forceful, real, and belting out songs like she’s hailing a cab at an airport. But someone got to her, and she blew it.

Of course, last year I thought David Archuleta was the best thing ever, and look what happened there. In 08, he was the Mormon golden boy with the smoky voice (not naturally; he had an operation) and the magical green eyes who could do no wrong. 

Then he went and did wrong. He had one hit – Crush – during the post-Idol euphoria when he was flying high, then followed this up with an album that was so blah, so inadvisably anemic, so nothing by contemporary music standards, that he left thousands of fans dangling, and the rest of us in utter despair, as one of the most promising careers ever on that show sputtered, fizzled and dived nose-first into a hedge.

Mind you, once it was revealed that the Mormons, to their eternal shame, were the chief sponsors of the Proposition 8 anti-gay marriage movement in California, anyone tarred with the Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints brush was doomed and cursed in my eyes. A church that sponsors and actively campaigns for division, hate, inequality, and bigotry? The very things Jesus himself was against? Wow, time to remove someone’s tax exempt status, it strikes me – and fast. Or drop the m and let’s refer to them as Morons from now on.

Archuleta was on the show last night too, back from obscurity for one last burst, breezing in to let us know why his mainstream career had gone nowhere by singing one of the blah songs from his blah album. He’s going on tour to the UK this week. Good luck, Britain! Remember, he’s a Moron. And the Morons promote hate and division and bigotry. Don’t let the cuteness and the nice teeth fool you.  

Actually, aren’t we all relieved now that he didn’t win? Cute as he is, goofy and daffy as he seems, and even with the Mormon albatross hanging around his neck – when you put that feeble dimbo on the same stage as the towering commercial giant that will be Adam Lambert after he wins this thing (or even if he doesn’t, frankly), it frames everything in a new perspective. At that point, the relative insignificance of an Archuleta or a Lil Rounds or an Anoop Desai, or whoever else you can name (and soon won’t be able to), becomes truly apparent.

I promised faithfully that I would not – not – watch another season of American Idol, and this may yet be my last, but I’m so glad I got sucked in. I wouldn’t have missed Lambert’s performances this year for the world.

Already I have money set aside to buy his album, money I’d planned to spend on something important, like food. Because I don’t need it. His talent alone is nourishing enough. There is protein in every note; he exudes carbohydrates of magic from every pore. Quite honestly, Adam Lambert could do next to nothing on his album – hum, groan, make noises, bang saucepans with a spoon – and I’d still buy it. He is utter magic.

So goodbye Lil Rounds. It’s over. You didn’t stand a chance. Please put David Archuleta in your backpack and leave, then sit back and watch how the professionals do it.  

 

American Idol still, infuriatingly, gets five magic carpets out of five.

TV Swami – he say YES.

www.cashpeters.com.

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Stop screaming and let me listen

Today, please forgive me.  I’m basking in the glow of yesterday.

The YouTube video got almost 1500 hits in just over 24 hours. Miniscule by Susan Boyle standards – that woman’s up to 90 million views to-date, or something ludicrous – but impressive nonetheless.

Incidentally, I was listening to her more closely, and I’m beginning to wonder whether her singing’s all that great after all.

Her story – the personal rags-to-rags-only-now-they’re-famous-rags story – is still captivating, of course, and she deserves all the acclaim she’s getting. The video gives you faith in people again and makes you want to cry. But the trick is all in the editing, I fancy; in particular the sound editing. Something tells me the producers skilfully sugar-coated the soundtrack in mad applause and screaming for a reason, and behind it, without this sweetener, Susan Boyle, though lusty and impassioned and cuddly and lovable and a powerhouse vocally at times, may in reality – in her shower at home, for instance – be a trifle inconsistent, sounding like someone’s grandma who’s knocked back too much sherry at a wedding and insists on belting out a bunch of standards to a steadily-dwindling crowd.  

I hope not, because I want her to succeed as much as anyone else. But we’ll only know for sure when they bring her back to the X-Factor for the real rounds and make her perform alone, without the audience shouting over her. At which point we may find that she’s good and highly entertaining, but she’s no Adam Lambert.

I’m just saying.

 

Susan Boyle gets four magic carpets out of five – but she’s on parole.

TV Swami – he say YES to clever sound engineers.

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Jeremy Piven with his shirt off. Yes, THAT Jeremy Piven.

It’s weird that on a day of the year that some  might say is ” v. important,”  I woke up, not thinking about that, but about Jeremy Piven, of all people.

I spotted him on Friday. In a clothes store on Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood. Though we were there for two entirely different reasons. The store has a bar next to the check-out and serves cocktails to celebrity customers while they shop. And seriously, what could be more handy or appropriate, or hysterically ludicrous actually, than sipping a pina colada while trying on a pair of pants? Who’s idea was that?

Anyway, I was there to interview the staff about this happy hour thing. Meanwhile, Piven was in a changing room experimenting with shirts.

Of course, I didn’t know it was him. But the manager was quick to point it out. “Oh, we can’t do the interview just yet –  Jeremy Piven’s over there shopping.”

That Jeremy Piven.

Well, immediately, I was fascinated. I pretended I wasn’t, but I was. It’s Hollywood, how can you not be? Plus, the guy’s on Entourage, for God’s sake. He takes home Emmys the way the rest of us take home groceries from Costco.

But, like gazelles in a wildlife park, celebrities scare easily, and you don’t want to rattle them by climbing out of your vehicle at the wrong time, especially not in a clothes store, and not when you’re carrying a microphone. So, being considerably less famous than Piven – in the sense that I’m not famous at all – I was forced to lurk in a back office well away from him, while assistants ran around with armfuls of clothes, servicing his needs, which I assume were great.

Then it was over. Bag in hand, he slipped on his shades, said a quiet goodbye, and disappeared out the back door into the alleyway.

Dunno why, but I always assume celebs will be obnoxious in some way. Too loud, too argumentative, too self-focused, too something.  But that’s just the news outlets doing their job, portraying it that way. In real life it’s not like that most times. They tend to be low-key, eager to duck the limelight, and stay out of harm’s way. In fact, many cower from exposure, as though one more camera flash, one more dumb heckle from one of the paparazzi jackals, one more inane question from an ordinary guy with a Flip camera hoping to get footage on TMZ or Entertainment Tonight, will drive them right over the edge: they’ll shoot a pistol into the crowd and start taking hostages.

Piven was like that. Not the taking hostages part – but rather the gentlemanly, eager to play it cool, ultra-pleasant, quick to exit part. Standing there in front of me one minute; then, like a wisp of smoke, or Robin Williams in Aladdin, gone.

What’s interesting about this – and I know you’re thinking, “Please God, let there be something interesting about this” – is that this isn’t my first encounter with Jeremy Piven. Back when I was in TV, he was making a travel show with the same production company. Called something like Journey of a Lifetime. The idea: take a celebrity to India and let him do yoga. That’s it. There was only one episode, as far as I know – Piven’s episode – then it vanished. Something else we have in common.

For that reason, he’d sometimes be in the building, sitting in the next edit suite watching a rough cut of his documentary. And of course there’d be an immediate buzz. The production assistants would run around in a tizz, going, “Jeremy Piven’s in the building. Next door. Watching footage. Yes, Jeremy Piven. That Jeremy Piven.” They couldn’t have been more excited. So clearly the guy has something, even if it’s not entirely obvious to me what that is. A sense of danger probably. Or, as an outside bet, talent.

However, back then, one of the production guys who went to India with him was less than complimentary, I recall.

Really???

Oh yes. Piven was passionate about yoga, sure, but oddly less passionate about making a show about yoga, or so went the story.  At least, that’s what I heard.

TV production people are notorious liars almost by habit, so the whole of this may be a fabrication, with Piven being the very model of a host and extremely dedicated. That said, the production guy did seem very flustered when I met him, so something went on. I just can’t say for sure what.

Besides, I know a thing or two about this. About TV production. I was extremely dedicated when I was making my TV show, and also very agreeable for the most part. Yet my producers were in despair a lot of the time too and couldn’t wait for the whole thing to end and to come home.

So, in short, maybe the India thing says more about TV crews than it does about a certain quiet, agreeable, and unobtrusive celebrity I saw buying shirts in a West Hollywood clothes shop.  That’s all I’m saying.

JP gets five magic carpets out of five for his behavior in a clothes store.

TV Swami – he say YES.

More ongoing celeb news on Twitter @TVSwami.

Follow Cash Peters on Twitter  @cashpeters.

Cash Peters’s book Naked in Dangerous Places is published today.

www.cashpeters.com.

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Naked. And very, VERY excited.

Today is a big day. A big, bad, bracing-for-tomorrow day.  And tomorrow, as we know, is an even bigger, badder-than-today day.

After all this time and so many books, you’d think that I wouldn’t be the least bit excited. In fact, I told friends who asked, “No, it’s fine. You don’t get excited after all this time.”  But I was wrong. I woke up this morning and realized I was. Very. I can’t help it. Excited and proud and happy, and all the rest.

You see, I had a TV travel show. It seems like millennia ago now. A travel adventure show in which I flew around the world, visiting bizarre and exotic cultures and living among them for a few days. Sounds great, right? But I was totally wrong for it. Quite apart from all my phobias, I’m also allergic to a whole bundle of foods that can be lumped together under the single heading of “foreign.”

And that was it. Lions in Kenya. Bears in Alaska. Monks and landmines in Cambodia. Lesbians in Greece. Six days in hospital….

All very interesting, and the resulting show was great. Just not for the guy hosting it. For over a year I struggled through what became a mounting catastrophe of global proportions; a deep, dark crevasse of fears and horrors that I thought would never end. But it did. And that’s what the new book’s about.

Naked in Dangerous Places, the Chronicles of a Hungry, Scared, Lost, Homesick, But Otherwise Perfectly Happy Traveler.

The new travel book

The new travel book

Out tomorrow in paperback and on Kindle.

So indulge me please. Allow me my brief moment of confined excitement. I’ll be back writing the blog within a couple of days.

Hee hee.

www.cashpeters.com

If you want to see a brief, limited edition mini-documentary about the book, it’s on YouTube.

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Jackboot Journalism

Fox News’ ratings are up again this month.

Not just up, but through the roof. Something I reveal, not with any sense of delight, by the way. Quite the reverse: it’s out of utter despair.

That close to three and a half million Americans simply don’t have the confidence or the mental capacity to turn away from this monster and shun it; that they don’t grasp how much they’re being exploited and manipulated by a band of savvy, cynical bullies so very adept by this stage at triggering a Pavlovian response from the unthinking masses; and that they don’t have the wherewithal to see what the rest of us see: that the Republican Party is the ventriloqust, Fox News is the dummy, and anyone who watches it without laughing at the audacity of this sham, unfair, unbalanced “news” operation is an even bigger dummy – well, understandably, that’s a source of massive angst to me, as it is to anyone with an IQ in more than double digits. 

Whenever I happen to catch Bill O’Reilly smiling his lizard smile, spouting what to me is the opposite of the truth – “The spin stops here” being just one example – and selling his line of trinkets and books to the pinheads at home; or when I see the monstrously awful, posturing Glenn Beck going through his phony clown routine; or Sean Hannity, or any of the other celebrity puppets on there, for that matter, slanting the truth the way they do, cherry-picking their fights to favor and embolden the right, demonizing the good, ambushing interviewees in the street, verbally tarring and feathering their critics, pumping the acid of anxiety into people’s veins, dangling the carrots of neverending distress and danger and doom before a public either not bright enough or not switched on enough to see when they’re being had, it’s hard not to feel sad for America. Sad and alarmed, actually. 

That it all came to this, I hear friends lament. Centuries of struggle, riots, marches, intelligent discourse, caring, concerned people laying down their lives for freedom, generation after generation proudly standing on each other’s shoulders, striving to reach a higher standard, a bigger dream, a further star – and after all of that, this, Fox News, is what we ended up with.

If you doubt what I’m saying, try watching BBC News sometime. Its objectivity and lust for facts and honest information will blow your socks off.  

Take Fox‘s attempts this week to spark a volcano of unrest under the conservative base by enraging them into supporting those embarrassing tea-bagging rallies. 

It was a fairground attraction, of course, a bid for ratings. Waves of wrath were supposed to be unleashed. Ordinary dopes across the country were duped into braving the pouring rain in utter outrage at the Democrats’ plan to raise taxes, seemingly unaware in their blind eagerness to stand up and be counted that, since every last one of them was earning less than $250,000 a year, their taxes would actually be coming down. Oops.

A million tea-bags dumped in a Washington park – only, someone forgot to apply for a permit, so they couldn’t be. Oops.

Glenn Beck trying to start a revolution at the Alamo. It’s Glenn Beck – so it’s always an oops.

Neil Cavuto caught in an off-camera moment saying that the rally he was at had five thousand attendees, then going on TV immediately afterwards and telling his audience that there were three times that number standing behind him. Big oops.

Bah, humbug. Really.

Yet, all across America, tiny pockets of ignorati responded to the slow drum-beat of  Fox News’s formularized tubthumping by engaging in this newly invented ritual of tea-bagging.

Tea-bagging, tea-bagging, tea-bagging – it’s all we’ve heard for days.

Meanwhile their rivals CNN and MSNBC, as astonished as the rest of us that such an idiotic movement could have gained any traction at all, felt compelled to quit skulking in their respective corners and actually tell the truth.

They showed, with relish, the meager number of attendees at those rallies.

They ridiculed, albeit in sober ways, the very idea that anyone would fritter  even an ounce of energy or a valuable second of their life in these modern times trying to convince voters at the dimmer end of the spectrum in such states as Texas, Oklahoma, and Alaska, that seceding from the Union is a viable idea.

They pointed out that whoever threw a box of tea bags onto the White House lawn was a moron, and should have seen that they would be viewed as a potential terrorist.

Above all, they took care to remind their audience, subtly of course, what tea-bagging actually is: a slang term for dunking your balls in someone’s mouth like a teabag and letting them slide in and out of the lips, a move designed to induce pleasure in both sucker and suckee.  

What’s odd to me, and to many others, I suspect, is that these latter broadcasters, the ones who are less frenetic, more grown-up, more cagey about lavishing invective and superlatives on obviously trumped-up garbage –  more BBC-ish, in fact,  in that they actually try to deliver the news rather than promising to, then doing something else entirely – have far lower ratings, relatively speaking.

If Bill O’Reilly clocks up three and a half million viewers, say, then Anderson Cooper (whom I don’t like either, incidentally, but for a whole bunch of other reasons), grabs a straight million. Give or take. Now, a million people is a lot. But not when you consider that The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a real news show masquerading as a fake news show, beats him by almost eight hundred thousand viewers. In fact, very many Americans – my friends included – get the bulk of their news from The Daily Show.

None of which is terribly encouraging.

But it’s the same old story. Cheap sensationalism wins. Loud sideshows draw a crowd. As I’m prone to saying, dim people love color and movement and noise and explosions. And I guess I can add to that list Fox News. 

Intelligent people, on the other hand, tend to be dismissive and let it go. They’re simply too busy enjoying their lives, doing interesting things, getting educated, contributing to society, traveling, exploring, feeding their curiosity and their brains, to waste a single moment on jackboot journalism and those who engage in it.

 

Fox News gets two magic carpets out of five.  

TV Swami – he say NO.

www.cashpeters.com

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