Entries Tagged 'being a consumer of media' ↓

Was there ever a point in time when the chicken joke was funny? The original one I mean. The one that has come to represent the quintessential definition of a joke in general, and a bad joke in particular.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: To get to the other side.

It’s a reversal technique that gives this joke its intended humor. The setup indicates the chicken had some higher purpose for crossing the road. But the punchline indicates he was crossing the road simply for the purpose OF crossing the road. A modern equivalent of this joke (at least the only one I can think of at 4:00 in the morning as I sit in a production trailer babysitting editors) comes from an episode of Friends.

FRANK: We were down at the courthouse, we were having lunch and we just decided to get married.
PHOEBE: Oh my god, what were you doing at the courthouse?
FRANK: We were having lunch.

The funny reversal idea behind the chicken joke is the same, but once we’re actually old enough and intellectually mature enough to get the punchline, we’ve heard it like a zillion times in some other patently not funny context, making it just “that stupid chicken joke.” Really, the only time anyone ever laughs at the chicken joke is when somebody (not unlike the original joke teller) throws some kind of reversal on the expected punchline.

It can be done via a pun like:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the playground?
A: To get to the other slide.

It can be done with absurdity:

Q: Why did the frog cross the road?
A: Because he was stapled to the chicken.

Or it can be done by applying a third party personality to the punchline:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A (by Einstein): Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road moved beneath it depends on your point of reference.
A (by Martin Luther King): I envision a world where chickens are free to cross roads without having their motives called into question.
A (by Buddha): To ask this question is to deny your own chicken nature.
A (by Colonel Sanders): Wait, you mean I missed one?

But just where the heck did the original joke come from? And moreover, was there ever a point in time when people found it funny? Like did the first adult to ever hear this joke laugh when he heard it? As I said, the joke has become kind of a stock character of sorts representing all jokes everywhere and all bad jokes specifically. But that iconic status couldn’t have materialized out of thin air. Was it a really popular joke that just got told too much, making people sick of it to the point where they finally started mocking the thing? It must have been based in something somewhere in the past. Catch phrases are like that too. We say them and we know what they mean, but they don’t actually make sense in our modern context.

Example: “Close but no cigar.”

Heh? What the heck does a cigar have to do with guessing the wrong answer? Well, fairground games used to give away cigars as prizes. So when a patron missed the ring toss by an inch, the guy running the game would let loose with a phrase that actually meant something in contemporary context. Even though that context has disappeared over the years, the phrase still holds meaning.

Likewise, even though the chicken joke is no longer funny, we still recognize it, not only as a joke, but as THE joke. But where? When? Why? How did this particular joke earn such dubious longevity?

And moreover… why a chicken?

I received a rather long internet forward on my MySpace bulletin board this week which basically said, “Hey couch potato, make sure you vote next Tuesday!” Like most forwards that don’t involve filling out surveys or watching videos of indie rock bands on treadmills, I gave it only a quick skim before devoting my attention to more pressing matters, like creating my own South Park character and scanning for hotties amongst my friends’ friends list. I fully expected the bulletin and all its content to fade from memory by the time I logged off the site. But before clicking away to post a YouTube video of a cat falling down the stairs, my eyes happened upon one particular line: “They’re calling our generation the Apathetic Generation.”

The composition of this particular bulletin indicated an author with better writing skills than your typical 14 to 23-year-old MySpace user, so it made sense that the original poster was probably someone closer to my age and the apathetic generation to which he referred was my own. Born in 1978, I’ve always been rather confused as to which generation I technically belonged. A quick check of Wikipedia simultaneously places me in Generation X, Generation Y, The MTV Generation and something called “The Boomerang Generation.” But no matter which “our generation” the author was actually indicating, I could only assume that the finger-wagging “they” to which he alluded meant the people of our parents’ generation, which for the average MySpacer means the Baby Boomers.

Normally an attack like this doesn’t bother me enough to give it a second thought (isn’t that what apathy is all about?), but for some reason this particular criticism, made in this particular context, stuck with me well after I’d finished approving new friend requests and changing my profile song to “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley. What this nameless “they” was saying, according to the author, was that despite being faced with a war, a nuclear threat, human rights violations and a laundry list of other issues, “our generation” is still too lazy and uncaring to go out and vote. I went back over the post several times and the more I read that one key line, the more self-righteous my apathy became.

When “they” say “our generation” is apathetic, what “they” are really saying is that “we” aren’t like “them.” “We” don’t do all the things “they” did at our age. “Our generation” doesn’t mobilize for reform on college campuses. “Our generation” doesn’t march on the Capitol building waving placards and hurling slogans. “Our generation” doesn’t engage in civil disobedience while singing defiant folk songs. And “our generation” certainly doesn’t rally around political candidates who might end the tyranny, bring peace to our country and harmony to the world. If this is what “they” mean by an “apathetic generation” then I guess I’d say “they” are right.

But can “they” really blame us? After all, “they” are “our generation’s” role models. “They” thought trying to change the world was all noble and groovy for about a decade or so until they realized there was more money to be made selling real estate. “They” were all about fighting The Establishment and standing up for the little man until “they” realized they could use their law degree to defend The Establishment against little man’s lawsuits and earn a fatter paycheck. Woodstock, Marin County, the Sunset Strip, places where “they” used to hang out, smoke dope and say, “Love is all you need,” are now nothing more than giant spaces for them to build luxury condos and hang billboards advertising Big Macs, timeshares, and the next season of Big Brother. “They” were passionate. “They” were going to make a difference. And yet look at what “they” produced. Frankly, I think things might have turned out better if “they” had taken a cue from “our generation” and just said, “Eh, whatever.”

If there’s anything “our generation” has learned from “them”, it’s that politics is not the way to change the world. We tried it out for a while… more to see what all the fuss was about. During the 2004 Democratic and Republican Conventions, “our generation” descended on Boston and New York and tried to capture that allure of the late sixties. We marched. We protested. We spoke out on matters we only kind of understood. But the trend died quickly… probably when all the young men realized this political revolution wasn’t manifesting with a sixties-style sexual revolution. And as soon as it became apparent that those hot Blue State chicks weren’t giving it up after the rally, we went back to work at Best Buy to save enough cash for a Razr phone with internet capabilities—so we could check our MySpace on the go.

Maybe “our generation” doesn’t vote. Maybe we don’t give two hoots about who ends up controlling Congress next Tuesday. But does anyone among us—from “our generation” or “theirs”—really and truly believe that a different set of politicians will be the thing that brings about a new and better America? “They” have already proven their own lack of faith in the power of the vote by moving on from the passionate activism of the late sixties to the apathetic consumerism of pretty much every decade since. All “our generation” is doing is skipping over “power of the vote” and going straight to apathy.

That being said, “our generation” is far from apathetic. We do care about things. We really do. It’s just that right now, honestly, we have no idea whatsoever how to fix the mess that “they” created. Perhaps it will come to us in time. Perhaps what looks like apathy is just “our generation” unconsciously biding its time, watching and waiting until “they” vacate the premises. We know there’s nothing we can really do as long as “they” are still in control, so why waste “our” time and “our” energy on useless rallies and campaigns that will only serve to get another one of “them” elected? Better to sit here quietly listening to our iPods, playing World of Warcraft, and deciding which MySpace friends to put in our Top 8 List. Who knows, maybe MySpace will become the platform where the new revolution begins. Maybe with every silly blog we post, with every YouTube video we embed, with every slutty self-portrait we upload, we will slowly but surely come together as one unit who will finally bring down The Establishment “they” were ultimately powerless to stop. And unlike the misguided stunts “they” pulled in the preceding generation, our tactics are less likely to get us shot by the National Guard.

So to all the “they’s” who want to call us “The Apathetic Generation,” we say enjoy your election next Tuesday. We won’t be there, but we’ll be thinking of you. And when your solution to everything once again fails to solve anything, we’ll be here, predictably not caring. We’ll just keep on doing what we do everyday; hanging out on MySpace and waiting for you to die.

Lauren and I finally had a Saturday night with nothing work related, so we cozied up on our couch, played a board game and decided to watch the movie Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. It had been several years and I forgot what a solid little comedy it was.

For those who didn’t grow up in the eighties and haven’t seen this movie, briefly, it’s about two boneheaded high school kids who are trying to form a band… except now they’re failing history. They have one last chance to get an A-plus on their final oral report and pass the class or else Ted will be sent away to military school. From seven hundred years in the future, in drops (literally) a man named Rufus. He sends the moronic duo on a ‘most excellent adventure’ through history, where they gather ‘personages of historical significance’—including ‘the most bodacious philosophizer in ancient Greece’, Socrates (pronounced ‘SO-craits’); ‘the very excellent barbarian’, Ghengis Kahn; and of course, ‘the short dead dude’, Napoleon. They succeed in passing their report, and we realize the full importance of these two kids and the band they’re trying to form.

No doubt, this movie requires big, huge, gigantic suspension of disbelief, what with time-traveling phone booths, and entire civilizations achieving world peace through rock-n-roll, plus several dozen minor plot points that you just kind of have to say, “Sure, why not.” But if you can get by that, it is just ninety minutes of good clean fun. Heck, minus a few dirty words here and there, this movie is tame enough that I wouldn’t feel weird about my young kids watching it. And if this movie doesn’t fill you with the urge to play air guitar, nothing will. But most of all (and this really is the mark of a truly great movie) this flick has a ton of quotable lines. I mean a ton.

‘Sixty-nine, dudes!’

I honestly don’t think anybody could make a Bill & Ted today. The closest they came to trying was that lame waste of life, Dude, Where’s My Car. It’s like Hollywood thinks that in order to make a movie about idiots, the movie itself has to be idiotic. Yet, Bill & Ted, for as “dumb” and improbable as the movie was, was actually quite witty and well thought out. And apart from the titular duo being abnormally stupid with ridiculous surfer accents, you never feel as though you’re watching one-dimensional stock characters. Compare that to Dude, Where’s My Car—which wasn’t so much a movie as it was a series of disconnected vignettes that only served to beat you over the head with the fact that these guys were idiots and nothing more.

‘Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.’

But let’s move on. What occurred to me tonight was how this movie really defines my generation. Or more accurately, one’s knowledge of this movie, or lack thereof, can tell you a lot about which generation they are a part of. And it all comes down to Keanu Reeves. Everybody from my generation cannot watch a Keanu Reeves movie without thinking, “Dude, that’s Ted jumping on that bus… That’s Ted talking to Dracula… That’s Ted learning kung fu.” If you come from a later generation, you simply replace all those declarations with, “Dude, that’s Neo in that vineyard.”

‘All we are is dust in the wind, dude.’

Something else that’s extra funny about this movie for me personally is George Carlin. I am a huge Carlin fan. I can quote every album I own verbatim, making the same use of his crotchety anger and numerous F-bombs. But here’s the thing, I first met ole George as Rufus in Bill & Ted. A couple years later I saw him hosting a comedy awards show and had no idea that he was this comedic legend. I simply thought, “Wow, that’s weird. Why would they have Rufus hosting a comedy show?” The first time I heard a George Carlin routine I thought, “Hey, that’s that guy from Bill & Ted sounding all angry at the world.” It’s all so ironic because, obviously, Carlin’s role as Rufus was the one role where he stepped out of character. But tonight, I had to laugh because for the longest time, I thought that was who George Carlin really was.

‘It seems to me that all you have learned is that Caesar is a salad dressing dude.’

There is one thing that makes me sad when I watch Bill & Ted. Alex Winter. For him, playing Bill S. Preston Esquire was really where he topped out. After making the sequel, Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, he really didn’t do much. I checked out IMDB and the few post-Bill roles he did have were in movies or TV shows that I’ve never even heard of. It’s really too bad. Why did Keanu have life after Bill & Ted and not Alex? They both seemed evenly pitched in their roles as idiots. But somehow Keanu is the one who achieved longevity. Though, actually, I just did a Google search on Alex, and it looks as though he’s developed a new career behind the camera as a writer and director of films and appears to be doing very well for himself. So… good for you Alex.

‘Eat the pig! Eat the pig! Ziggy ziggy ziggy zig!’

But anyway, long story short, Bill & Ted… great movie. If you haven’t seen it, rent it. If you already own it, watch it again, because I’m sure it’s been awhile for you too. Watch it and remember that idiocy can be done smartly. And of course, above all…

‘Be excellent to each other… Party on, dudes!’

I read a story in USA Today yesterday (actually “story” is too big a word, this was more of a blurb buried in the margins) about a series of explosions that occurred inside a bomb recycling plant in Louisiana this week. Okay, first of all, in this spectacle-fueled society, why was that one not all over the front page? People live for stories with explosions. Especially ones that occur right in our own back yard.

Second of all, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as bomb recycling plants in this county. I didn’t know there was such a thing as bomb recycling. Exactly what kinds of bombs do these people recycle and what, pray tell, do they make with the leftover components? Firecrackers? Presto logs? Cap guns? Apparently this plant recycles old military bombs. I assume we’re not talking about nukes here, but are they the kind that look like old cannon balls with fuses on them? Are these like plastic explosives? …and if so, which number is printed inside the little triangle on the bottom?

But more to the point, who signs up for this particular job? What are the qualifications one needs to recycle bombs? What sorts of interests and aptitudes would a high school student need to demonstrate for a guidance counselor to point him down the road of bomb recycling? And what kind of salary would you need to pull down before you agreed to something like this? Oh I’m sure they have safety guidelines in place at this recycling plant, but dang, a place like that is (forgive the unfortunate turn of phrase) a ticking timebomb… which they probably refurbish into a watch or something before the timer goes to zero.

But the thing that is really… REALLY funny about this story—the explosions forced police to evacuate two schools in the area.

Seriously… no I mean seriously… WHO BUILDS A BOMB RECYLING PLANT NEAR A FREAKIN’ SCHOOL?

This isn’t my usual quirky petulant rambling for good reason. Syd Barrett, the creator of the band Pink Floyd died last week. I became a big Pink Floyd fan the summer before I went to college. Then I became a rabid fan while in college. I listened to them all the time, I had their album posters on my wall, I had quotes from their songs plastered all over my dorm room door, I used their music as background in various video projects I produced, I even named a major character in one of my shows after the now-deceased founder, Syd.

Reading their incredibly informative and intimate biography, “A Saucerful of Secrets” by Nicholas Schaffner only served to fuel the obsession. It was in this book that I read all about Syd, the guy who brought the band together but then fried his brain so much on drugs that he couldn’t continue with it. Unfortunately for Syd, yet very fortunately for every Pink Floyd fan out there, music history was much better served by his fall from rock stardom. Pink Floyd only became the super, mega, trippy, space age band it became because of Syd’s demise. Roger Waters took over as head of the band, bringing his weird visions and lyrical mastery into the mix. David Gilmour was brought in to replace Syd as lead guitar and vocalist, which gave Pink Floyd their now classic and signature sound. Beyond that, everything great that Pink Floyd has done, every album and song that people know and love them for, was inspired (directly or indirectly) by Syd Barrett’s collapse. Dark Side of the Moon chronicles, through poetry and incendiary guitar licks, Syd’s descent into madness. The Wall is the story of a rock star who allows the pressure of fame and the horrors of the world to drive him deeper and deeper into insanity. Several songs and scenes from the movie depict actual moments of Syd Barrett’s own life, including a night when he locked himself inside his hotel room then sat there catatonic until moments before a scheduled show, while managers, loved ones and the other band members hollered, “Time to go!” from outside.

The song “Wish You Were Here“, from the album of the same name, is an obvious dedication to Syd. I’ve never been to a Pink Floyd concert (I got into them the summer after they stopped touring), but from what I’ve heard, they are visceral orgasms full of lasers and lights and psychedelic images beamed onto a signature circular projection screen above the stage. Yet whenever they sang, “Wish You Were Here”, the lights dimmed, the lasers and the projector were turned off, and the band sang the simple song to their friend, with the audience singing along amidst a sea of lit cigarette lighters.

If only for this I felt a pang of mourning upon hearing of Syd’s passing last week. Honestly I held no special place in my heart for him as a musician. I’ve tried listening to albums Pink Floyd did with Syd at the helm and it is entirely unlike anything they did in their later, more productive, years. During their Syd years, the band had a more Brit-pop sound to them. Basically picture the way the early Beatles sounded… you know, if the Beatles had dropped acid and tried to write songs for children. One of Syd’s most famous lyrics comes from the song “Bike” on the Piper at the Gates of Dawn album and goes, “I’ve got a mouse and he doesn’t have a house. I don’t know why I call him Gerald.” So from a musical standpoint, I don’t like anything except post-Syd Floyd. Some pretentious music buffs will try and scoff and say the band was never the same after Syd left. I agree with that… it got better. Infinitely better. Anybody listening to Piper at the Gates of Dawn side-by-side with Dark Side of the Moon would swear that these were actually two completely different bands.

No, my regrets over Syd Barrett are felt more because I do know his story and it is tragic. Here was a guy who was ruling the musical world at the time and he wrecked it all with drugs. He spent the remainder of his life as a recluse, living in his mother’s house off his Pink Floyd royalties – which the rest of the band made certain he always received. Yet he was the inspiration for the music that defined so much of my late teens and early 20′s. And knowing that these songs originated out of the unravelling life of a real life person who I’d read all about only made the songs hit me at an even deeper level. These days I have to be in a very specific spaced out mood to turn on the Floyd, though their music remains, and will always remain a very fond relic of my college days. If only for that I raise my glass to the late Syd Barrett and say (along with every other cliched Pink Floyd fan), “Shine on you crazy diamond…”

Has anybody else from my generation noticed how the classic story “The Three Little Pigs” has been changed to become more “accessible” and “kid friendly”? Everybody remembers the basic story structure. There are three brother pigs who go off to build houses. Two of the pigs are lazy and build their houses out of straw and sticks respectively. But the third little pig is an industrious forward thinker. He knows there are wolves out there who would try to eat him, so he builds a strong house out of bricks. Well lo and behold, along comes the Big Bad Wolf who proceeds to “huff and puff and blow the house down” on the first two pigs. But the third little pig’s brick house is too strong and the wolf is foiled. Exactly how the wolf is foiled has evolved over the years.

First of all, in older versions of the story, the Wolf actually eats the first two pigs. I don’t think there is a version around anymore where this grisly turn of events still takes place. Generally speaking, straw-pig and stick-pig run to the house of their better-prepared brother. This specific rewriting doesn’t bother me all that much. I know the original intent of that particular plot line was to reinforce a Christian work ethic in kids by implying: “Don’t be idle and lazy or you’ll DIE!” But it’s hard to enjoy good lighthearted literature if two such lovable characters experience such a gruesome death. So I’m cool with that kind of creative license taking.

What bothers me is how history has tried to rewrite the ultimate fate of the Big Bad Wolf. Again, in the versions I always read, the Wolf died at the end of the story. After failing to blow down the brick house, he comes down the chimney where the little pig (or pigs depending on the version) have put a kettle of boiling water into the fireplace. The Wolf lands in the water and is boiled to death. Again, depending on the version, his death goes down in one of two ways. Either a) the little pig(s) cook the wolf and eat him or b) (the more palatable version) the wolf simply boils away into non-existence. Either way, the wolf gets his comeuppance and the little pigs are freed from his reign of terror.

Well, that is not how it happens today. In every modern version, the Wolf slides down the chimney, burns his bottom on the boiling water then runs into the woods, never to bother the little pigs again.

(((I guess I should acknowledge the caveat that this isn’t necessarily a new way of telling the tale. The popular Disney version of the story includes this kid-friendly non-violent ending—and that cartoon came out in 1933. But as of the early 80′s, when I was growing up, there were still plenty of printed versions of the story that included the wolf’s boiling demise.)))

I know we’re trying to save our children’s frail psyche’s by eliminating all mention of death and violence in their stories, but I must state for the record that I HATE this version of “The Three Little Pigs” with its non-violent climax. From a purely storytelling point of view, there is nothing satisfying about the Wolf escaping with just wounded pride and a sore bottom. I mean he just spent the better part of the story doing everything he could do to kill and devour three helpless oinkers whose worst sin was being a little lazy. Why shouldn’t the Big Bad Wolf die at the end? Do the rewriters really expect us to believe that this Wolf is just going to sit around moping in the woods and never bother the pigs again? Please! As soon as his butt heals, he’ll be back, and with a vengeance. Knowing he can’t penetrate the house, he’ll just wait patiently outside, knowing that these pigs are going to have to come out eventually. No, in order to have full closure on this story, the wolf has to die… or at least be subdued in some way. Maybe the pigs could tie him up and send him to Abu Dhabi or something. (and pat yourself on the back if you caught the Garfield reference).

I know I’m overreacting, and I know it’s just a kid’s story, but come on now, let’s give that Wolf what he’s got coming!

You know what TV show I used to love as a kid? American Gladiators. What an awesome show that was. To a ten-year-old boy, that show was like gym class for superheroes. I mean you had dodgeball, except the balls in this case were fired at you from a high speed canon while you shot back with crossbows and rocket launchers. There was a rock wall with the added element of a really big guy chasing you, trying to yank you off. You had an obstacle course, though it was more like a mythological gauntlet full of smoke, flashing lights and giants trying to knock you down.

I wonder if that show would impress kids these days, what with the gluttony of fast-paced action-filled cartoons and kid shows they already have at their disposal. But when the most exciting shows were Growing Pains and Muppet Babies, American Gladiators was like a forbidden look into the hidden lives of action stars or something. The fact that it came on late on a Saturday night, right after Saturday Night Live where I lived, only added to the allure that you were somehow breaking the rules and seeing things that only grownups were meant to see.

As kids who played sports, my friends and I would often talk about wanting to go on American Gladiators. To be honest, I don’t even know what kind of prizes the winner of each show received. For us, it wasn’t about winning, it was about competing. But really it was about playing. Hardcore, meat and muscle, violence-for-fun playing. Running inside a giant metal sphere and bashing into your opponents in an effort to score points. Walloping a guy twice your size with a big foam jousting stick, trying to knock him off his ten-foot pedestal. How freakin’ awesome would it have been just to be allowed inside that auditorium and be given the chance to compete in any of those games.

I read in TV Guide one time the qualifications needed to be considered as a contestant for American Gladiators. I don’t remember them all, but I do know you had to be able to do something like thirty chin-ups in a minute. That was crazy. Even at my strongest I’ve only been able to do ten of those things. I’m sure other qualifications were you had to be able to run a mile in less than five minutes, you had to lift a certain amount of weight with your legs and arms. Stuff like that. Stuff that only somebody at the very peak of physical strength and fitness had any hope of accomplishing.

I wish they’d bring back competition shows like that. Shows where you actually had to have, not just talent, but extreme talent to compete. What an awesome bar that gave us to shoot for. To get onto American Gladiators you had to aim high and work hard. These days, most of the competitions shows you see on TV require no other qualifications than not being a convicted felon. Survivor, Big Brother, The Amazing Race. Anybody can, in theory, appear on those shows. The only thing that increases your odds of being chosen isn’t superior strength or talent, but above average looks and a quirky personality. I guess that appeals more to people these days. The average viewer can watch these shows and actually picture themselves on that screen competing as they are, without any new skills or improvement. Hell, William Hung taught us that you didn’t even have to be a good singer to succeed on American Idol.

Is this all a sign of where we’re headed as a country? As a civilization? As a species? The bar used to be high. Impossibly high no doubt. None of us were ever going to attain the superiority required to appear on American Gladiators. But in the end, was that really such a bad thing? It gave us something shoot for and even when we didn’t hit that mark, we landed higher than we would have had we shot for something lower. These days, there’s no mark to shoot for. The message competition shows send out today is, “Just be yourself… your regular, stupid, talentless self, and you too could be a star.” If this trend continues, the human race is doomed. Evolution cannot progress if we aren’t constantly challenged in our daily lives.

I hate Reality TV. I refuse to watch any of it. But I promise all you TV executives out there, if you were to bring back American Gladiators, I would watch. But it’s got to be the real thing. The standards have to remain high. Contestants actually need to be able to pass a physical test to compete. And for the love of God, if I don’t see ugly people in the mix along with the hotties, I’ll tune you out forever. Because strong people with talent come at all levels of beauty.

Bring back American Gladiators. The future of the world depends on it.

1/5/09: Ironically, since I wrote this, NBC did come out with a new version of American Gladiators. And to this day I still haven’t seen it thus proving that I have no conviction in anything I say but prefer to just be a whiny little man.