I’m visiting my sister Shannon in Mississippi for a few days, getting some quality sibling time in before I hit the road with my touring play next week. It’s always fun to throw my brother-in-law and me in the same room right before an election. Shannon has warned that if the conversation turns to Obama/McCain at any point, she will throw herself on a steak knife. This is a particular challenge since Sarah Palin announced this morning that, you betcha, she wants to write some discrimination into the U.S. Constitution, gosh darn it. I am, thus far, holding my tongue on how much I’d like to see that folksy hokum harridan tarred and feathered.
My sister and I tend to bond over finding something on television and providing running commentary. A few Christmases back we stayed up ‘til sunrise watching “Love Can Build a Bridge: The Naomi Judd Story” on Lifetime Movie Network. The goddamn thing was a 4-hour miniseries. We couldn’t tear ourselves away, chiefly due to the fact that Wynonna appeared to be portrayed by a preoperative male-to-female transsexual who didn’t quite pass. I’m not saying there’s a thing in the world wrong with that, I’m just letting you know it sure as shit made for good TV.
Tonight the Learning Channel is doing a marathon of programs about people with peculiar medical maladies, much to our delight. We’ve already seen a man whose arms look like trees, and a middle-aged woman whose abdominal pains turned out to be the fetus of her unborn twin. These people are all mild-mannered, sympathetic folk who just want to return to a sense of normality. The viewer is expected to feel awful for them, and root for a happy ending.
And then there’s the story of Jose.
My sister and I tend to bond over finding something on television and providing running commentary. A few Christmases back we stayed up ‘til sunrise watching “Love Can Build a Bridge: The Naomi Judd Story” on Lifetime Movie Network. The goddamn thing was a 4-hour miniseries. We couldn’t tear ourselves away, chiefly due to the fact that Wynonna appeared to be portrayed by a preoperative male-to-female transsexual who didn’t quite pass. I’m not saying there’s a thing in the world wrong with that, I’m just letting you know it sure as shit made for good TV.
Tonight the Learning Channel is doing a marathon of programs about people with peculiar medical maladies, much to our delight. We’ve already seen a man whose arms look like trees, and a middle-aged woman whose abdominal pains turned out to be the fetus of her unborn twin. These people are all mild-mannered, sympathetic folk who just want to return to a sense of normality. The viewer is expected to feel awful for them, and root for a happy ending.
And then there’s the story of Jose.
Jose’s facial birthmark somehow went haywire and now his head looks like the underside of an octopus. He is cared for daily by his beleaguered sister, who keeps encouraging him to give up his favorite hobby: Going to the town square every day and singing to himself until he draws a crowd, then standing up screaming at people, waving his arms. You see, unlike most of the subjects of these documentaries, Jose is an asshole. By all indications he was an asshole long before he looked like Dr. Zoidberg from “Futurama,” but now that he does it’s just brought out all of his worst qualities. Jose is never satisfied with anything- the quality of his cheese sandwiches, the comfort of a train ride, the speed of a guided tour of London, the options his doctors propose for removing his nine-pound facial growth. He bitches about EVERYTHING. This endears Jose to us all the more, because it serves as verification that no matter what horrors you may endure in life, you’re still you.
Back when I had cancer, I would see the same group of patients when I went in for treatment, and eventually got to know a few of them. Veronica was a mother of two who was really pissed about how chemotherapy cut into her busy schedule, and we connected on how inconvenienced we were by disease. The only bright spot we could find was that our treatment schedule let us watch “Starting Over”, which was like “The Real World” if all the roommates had been malcontented housewives. Toni Braxton’s sister was on the show at the time, and that girl was BITTER.
Anyhoo, our nemesis at the treatment center was this old man who had lost all is hair like most of us, but the top of his head looked like a carton of eggs. Nobody could figure out what caused it. If Egg Man made it to the waiting room before Veronica or me, he’d tune into a rerun of “Matlock” and position himself two feet from the TV. And if we tried to change the channel, he’d yell, “Hey, I was watching that!”
One morning I arrived, and Veronica was seated on the sofa, watching “Starting Over” with an expression of triumph. I asked where Egg Man was, she turned to me beaming.
“He died! The son of a bitch DIED!”
“Oh my God, Veronica!”
“Oh, don’t act upset. It’s survival of the fittest around here. Now sit down, Bitter Braxton’s writing a song about how much she hates her family!”
You don’t really see those depictions of life-threatening illness that often. When Meryl Streep played a cancer patient, or Neil Patrick Harris was dying in “Next Best Thing”, they were presented as noble figures whose disease gave them powerful insight from which the protagonists could benefit in some way. I’m sure those people exist, but damn it, not everybody is gonna go that route.
Back when I had cancer, I would see the same group of patients when I went in for treatment, and eventually got to know a few of them. Veronica was a mother of two who was really pissed about how chemotherapy cut into her busy schedule, and we connected on how inconvenienced we were by disease. The only bright spot we could find was that our treatment schedule let us watch “Starting Over”, which was like “The Real World” if all the roommates had been malcontented housewives. Toni Braxton’s sister was on the show at the time, and that girl was BITTER.
Anyhoo, our nemesis at the treatment center was this old man who had lost all is hair like most of us, but the top of his head looked like a carton of eggs. Nobody could figure out what caused it. If Egg Man made it to the waiting room before Veronica or me, he’d tune into a rerun of “Matlock” and position himself two feet from the TV. And if we tried to change the channel, he’d yell, “Hey, I was watching that!”
One morning I arrived, and Veronica was seated on the sofa, watching “Starting Over” with an expression of triumph. I asked where Egg Man was, she turned to me beaming.
“He died! The son of a bitch DIED!”
“Oh my God, Veronica!”
“Oh, don’t act upset. It’s survival of the fittest around here. Now sit down, Bitter Braxton’s writing a song about how much she hates her family!”
You don’t really see those depictions of life-threatening illness that often. When Meryl Streep played a cancer patient, or Neil Patrick Harris was dying in “Next Best Thing”, they were presented as noble figures whose disease gave them powerful insight from which the protagonists could benefit in some way. I’m sure those people exist, but damn it, not everybody is gonna go that route.
The truth for some people is, if you were a dick on a good day, you’ll really be one on your worst day.
Shannon and I are supporting Jose all the more because of that fact. It’s easy to get on board for the life of the blind paraplegic who saves abused greyhounds, or the nun who needs a kidney, but to look at an absolutely horrible person and hope they live to be nasty another day requires sincere compassion.
Which brings me back to keeping mum on Sarah Barracuda. We are days away from hopefully sending the whole Palin clan right back to Alaska. My vote has already been cast. So I will simply stare at the image of her on my television screen in much the same way I’m watching Jose wave his arms and scream in the town square: With a mix of horror and sadness, recognizing that some folks will be appalling no matter what, and hoping that someone out there can fix whatever the hell’s wrong with them.
Shannon and I are supporting Jose all the more because of that fact. It’s easy to get on board for the life of the blind paraplegic who saves abused greyhounds, or the nun who needs a kidney, but to look at an absolutely horrible person and hope they live to be nasty another day requires sincere compassion.
Which brings me back to keeping mum on Sarah Barracuda. We are days away from hopefully sending the whole Palin clan right back to Alaska. My vote has already been cast. So I will simply stare at the image of her on my television screen in much the same way I’m watching Jose wave his arms and scream in the town square: With a mix of horror and sadness, recognizing that some folks will be appalling no matter what, and hoping that someone out there can fix whatever the hell’s wrong with them.
