Even though it's not especially useful, I maintain a blog. The name of it is a bit loony; it's called Fist Pumps and Beyond. I had no major qualms with the title until the emergence of Jersey Shore, when the act of fist-pumping became synonymous with vain dimwits who, for whatever reason, get paid to fry in tanning beds and drunkenly hump strangers in front of cameramen.
When I gripe about this little misfortune, I'm sometimes asked why I don't simply change the name of my blog. My response reflects that of Michael Bolton, the character from Office Space, when his co-worker urges him to alter his name so that he will be less readily linked to that Grammy-winner and “no-talent ass-clown,” the singer Michael Bolton.
“Why should I change?” I snap. “They're the ones who suck.”
Watching Jersey Shore is like a masturbatory salute to a massacre of brain-cells. That show is soft-core porn for women who prefer to watch a trollish and homely lead-actress. For men, Jersey Shore is the douche-bag's guide to success. It's a program designed for people who liked The Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, but demanded that it be dumbed down a couple notches.
My bitchiness on the issue notwithstanding, I have to concede that, at present time, those self-absorbed meat-heads serve a slightly greater purpose than I do. For the time being, their lives are probably more fulfilling than mine. Reality show playthings are held in higher regard than writers who accept bar credit as payment.
I get that. It's understandable. However, in the grand scheme of things, neither wealthy entertainers nor the malcontents struggling to entertain deserve to be valued too much. It shouldn't be overlooked that art, as well as reality TV—art's inbred and mutated distant-cousin—are luxuries rather than necessities. Humanity could easily survive without Jersey Shore or my blog. We could no doubt survive as a species in a world devoid of Pauly D. concerts, the plays of Shakespeare, the Super Bowl, The Godfather, reruns of Saved by the Bell, and cranky rants on the Internet...but we would prefer not to.
The pitiful burden of writers, actors, painters, musicians, and sure, even reality TV bottom-feeders, is the shared anticipation of money for performing non-essentials tasks. At its core, civilization does not require any form of entertainment to develop. Vocations such as inventor, doctor, nurse, teacher, scientist, cop, firefighter, architect, construction worker, electrician, mechanic, plumber, and garbageman have all benefited the human race vastly more than some greasy bum flexing his abs or some naysayer cracking jokes on his blog. Even professionals that are commonly loathed (dentists, lawyers, and politicians) offer a service more meaningful than entertainment. Artists and entertainers can rightfully look down on those whose ultimate goal is to follow their favorite jam band on-tour...but that about covers it; basically, people like me strive to become a wee bit more vital than filthy sponges of drugs and 6-minute guitar solos.
If that seems like an overstatement, consider the doomsday hypothetical. Humanity is relatively fortunate and spoiled at this stage of the time-line, but should the almighty reset-button be pressed on the game we have in progress, should our advancements be negated by some sort of Armageddon, what would be our top priorities when forced to rebuild a waylaid planet?
Putting together a performance of Our Town in a ruinous high school auditorium? Gathering around a campfire to indulge in an acoustic rendition of “The Times They Are A-changin'”? Trekking across a devastated landscape to New Jersey to ogle what's left of the freak-show by the shoreline?
If you care to survive in a post-apocalyptic world, it helps to answer those three questions with a series of “nopes.” A writer like me would almost certainly be screwed if society had to start over again.
If I had to choose one type of doomsday, it would have to be a zombie uprising. Even though it's the most unlikely scenario—much less plausible than scenarios caused by nuclear warfare, airborne viruses, and economic collapse—the zombie uprising is the funnest to consider, and the one that I have researched the most thoroughly by sitting on my ass while watching movies and TV shows and playing video games.
If we're overrun by the undead, the legit professionals that I mentioned before would all fare much better than the cast of Jersey Shore, but let's at least ponder the fates of the program's most recognizable morons—assuming they could endure the first few weeks of panic and destruction.
Pauly D. would soon feel the urge to throw a party for the survivors, but before that, he'd have to seek the services of an electrician in order to supply power for his turntables. And even if that electrician could provide a functioning current with extremely depleted resources for such a frivolous cause, the gaudy light-show and the thumping beats of Pauly D's concert would no doubt attract zombies to the gathering. Now, I hate to cheer for the undead, but if you're that dumb and negligent, you deserve to be the first of many victims in a zombie onslaught.
What happens to the rest of the useless human beings? Pay less than three bucks to find out. More Stories, and Additional Stories be the name of that eBook... Wait. Is, not be. Pirate jokes aren't as funny as more, especially when they're so egregiously out of context. Fuck! Well, buy the eBook, anyway.
