Tag: entertainment

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Beware Of False Idols


Taylor Swift is back in the news—not that she ever left. I was hoping that her knuckle-dragging boyfriend would have married her by now, moved to a tar paper shack in Appalachia, and kept her barefoot and pregnant. No such luck. The millions of her lemming-like young fans have been breathlessly awaiting her choice for president. The anointed swift-one dropped it on social media. She is supporting the Harris Walz duo. Does she not understand that more than half of America is conservative and controls the purse strings of their children, her fans. Ali wants the new Taylor Swift album priced at forty dollars. I think not. Crafty marketing has turned her into a money machine. She knows the power she wields with the pre-teen and teenage girls. They have made her a billionaire. A tall, leggy blond who writes and sings cartoon music, perfect for a Saturday morning children’s show. Millions of young girls hang on to her every word and march like soldiers to her orders. Say something wrong about their golden idol, and they will unite and come for you in the middle of the night.

Somewhere in Kansas

A quiet suburban street, older homes, well-kept with tidy yards. The car in the drive is going on at ten years old, and the pickup parked next to it is a year older. The mother works at Walmart, and the father is an auto mechanic and a volunteer fireman. Blue-collar, over-taxed, middle-America Christians. Their thirteen-year-old daughter, a swifty, which is what her cult following calls themselves, walks into the kitchen where her parents are seated at the breakfast table, shuffling the monthly bills in two stacks: pay and don’t pay. They are counting their dollars and now counting coins, hoping to have enough to pay for the groceries for the week. In a snotty know-it-all tone, typical for her age, the daughter, in a demanding tone of voice, tells her parents that they must vote for Harris because Taylor Swift endorsed her, and they need to give her five hundred dollars for a ticket to her show next month because Taylor says all Swifties must unite.

Her father looks at her and says, “We are in a financial squeeze, young lady, so to pay the bills and buy food, I will need your iPhone right now, and I am canceling your subscriptions to Spotify, iTunes, your phone service, and the internet. You will also need to get an after-school job, or drop out and work full time, your college fund is no more, we had to use it to pay the mortgage and for your braces. That nice car you wanted for your sixteenth birthday, well, that’s not going to happen. Now, since you are united, call Miss Swift and ask her to send you a check.”

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Comedy Gone A ‘Foul


I love Mark Twain. I revered him to the point that when I was a child of ten, becoming Mark Twain was my life’s ambition. Sadly for me, it didn’t work out, but he still inspires me to this day, not only with his witty writing but his keen eyes focused on the human race. Not much has changed since his days on the big river, or so I thought.

I attempted, and somewhat succeeded, to watch portions of a streaming salute to the black comedian Kevin Hart on Netflix. Filmed at the bastion of liberal theater, the elitist government-funded “The Kennedy Center.” He was being awarded with the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor.

I like Kevin Hart; he’s a funny guy who is not afraid to dig into squeamish subjects. But he is strictly adult comedy: crude, foul-mouthed, racist, and mean at times. He has his place in clubs, streaming specials, and R-rated movies, not on the stage of the “Sacred Cow Kennedy Center” in front of a mixed audience of wealthy Hollywood folks jiggling their jewelry and rich old ladies who were clearly put off by the humor he and his roasting guest comedians spat out. The F word seemed to be the most favored of the night, and they all used it for maximum value.

Jerry Seinfeld, the king of clean comedy, introduced the show and praised Kevin for his body of work. Kevin, in the king and queen box, yuked it up, kissed his kids and wife, and wiped away a few tears; it was a touching tribute until Seinfeld left the stage, and that is when the show went to comedic hell in a “Jackie O Handbasket.”

I know how to cuss, learning it from my father’s side of the family and from my sainted Cherokee mother, who could string some of the better words into a formidable tirade. The F word and a few more, are in my vocabulary, and lately, watching the maddening news on television, I find myself screaming adult language at my set. But that is in my home, in front of Momo, who can cuss as well as I can, sometimes better. We don’t dare say bad words in public or in mixed company or around our family, especially the grandkids. So why is filthy, foul-mouthed thuggish language acceptable for an audience at “Jack’s Palace?” You could see Jerry Seinfeld cringe when the camera panned to him. I’m certain he has used those words, especially dealing with Kramer, Newman, and maybe the Soup Nazi.

When Hart finally took the stage to thank everyone and show his stuff, it was a recitation of F you, F this, F that, and so on: all his comedy buds in the box seats roared with approval, showing me that you can be funny, make a butt-load of money and have folks idolize you, but you that doesn’t give you class.

Hollywood and its ilk have taken what was once a reverent, respected, cherished, and Homeric award and turned it into another cheap-assed participation trophy, like the Oscar. Mark Twain deserves so much better.