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Outrageous talk show sleaze passes its prime
“I’ve been everything you can’t
respect — a lawyer, a mayor, a news
anchor, and a talk show host. If I sell
used cars, I’ve done the whole
cycle.”
— Jerry Springer
I remember the good old days
when the sleaziest thing on a talk
show was Donahue in a women’s
dress. I can’t remember what the
point in his little exercise was, but I
think he had one. '
Today’s talk show hosts rarely
have a point. Each seems to be
concerned solely with being more
outrageous than the competition.
Rather than exploring an issue, they
explore their guests’ libidos, an area
that I think most of us would really
not like to go to.
Sure, some of them are funny,
and from time to time they even
branch over and are entertaining for
a second or two. Well, except for
Ricki Lake. I can’t stand her. If
anyone out there can write in and
tell me anything she has done that
has been intelligent, I’ll buy them
lunch.
Now, before I get a call or letter
about how I should just “change the
channel if I don’t like what I see,”
consider some of the facts.
On any given day, there are 23
hours of talk show programming
available. If one were to consult the
TV listings for Lincoln, they would
find that nearly all of these shows
are on sometime during the day or
night. Many are on during the
afternoon hours, when I’m napping
instead of getting love advice from
Montel.
What’s more, consider the
number of shows that have come
and gone in the last few years:
Maury Povich, Vicki Lawrence,
Gabrielle, and my personal favorite,
Jody Burke
“Here are some recent
shoiv titles: ‘Get Bigger
Breasts Or Else, ’ He
Slept With The Baby
Sitter, ’ and He Won't
Stop Seeing Strippers To
Please His Girlfriend.
the All-Time Champion of Smut and
“Dweller on the Underbelly of
Humanity,” Charles Perez.
Do we really need more of these
shows? Like anything the TV
executives are coming up with will be
fresh and invigorating. I don’t know
about you, but I just cannot wait for
the Jim J. and Tammy Faye show.
Here are some recent show titles:
“Get Bigger Breasts Or Else,” “He
Slept With The Baby Sitter,” and “He
Won’t Stop Seeing Strippers To
Please His Girlfriend.” Notice a trend
here? Out of the top 10 topics on talk
shows, marital relations and sexual
activity claimed spots three and four.
It just seems like such a waste of
time to me. I’m not saying that we
should pull Ricki (Go Ricki, Go
Ricki) off the air. If people are so
desperately bored with their lives
that they can only find entertainment
in the bizarre and tragic plights of
their fellow man, then so be it. I just
fail to see the appeal.
j What angers me most is that
these shows thrive on confrontation.
“Let’s bring out the boyfriend’s
lover on the side.” Yeah, that ought
to prompt a productive conversation.
Perhaps when they are done, they
can have a chair-throwing contest.
Even worse are the attitudes of
these hosts.
Does anyone really believe that
Ricki and Charles give a damn about
their guests? Sure. They care all the
way to the bank. I mean, Ricki Lake
has to be one of the most self
serving, shallow people I have ever
seen. I want to yell at her: “If you’re
so interested in human misery,
donate time at a homeless shelter or
soup kitchen. You might learn
something.”
It is not the genre that is respon
sible. I like some of Oprah’s and
Donahue’s shows. Most of the time,
they at least try to present something
interesting that is actually newswor
thy. They don’t rely on confronta
tions between lovers, but usually try
to get at issues. They don’t always
succeed, but for the most part they
try. Ricki and Jenny Jones and all
their friends dig through the refuse
pile of topics, searching for anything
shocking.
I would like to think that the talk
show format is a passing fad, kind of
like Cop Rock, or Models INC.
Maybe, just maybe, America will
come to its senses, go outside, or
read a book in the afternoon, leaving
Ricki to her stellar “acting” career.
Until then, Long live Howard
Stem.
Burke is a senior English major and a
Dally Nebraskan columnist
life
Who says every senior wants to find a job?
In the news-editorial laboratory
in Avery Hall, there hangs a sign that
says: “GET A JOB!”
Qualified by way of a psychology
Keller Plan background, I propose
that such a statement aims to
motivate. Admittedly, the exclama
tion does little to stir my soul. As I
look about from my wee place in the
scheme of things, I see no reason
why I would ever be so compelled.
But either the impetus prevailed,
or I’m a more conscientious student
than I ever intended t^ be. In any
case I signed up for an interview
during the fall semester.
Life experience No. 37,428.
Sure, I’ve sought employment
before. But this interview involved a
resume, composure and a
postgraduation livelihood. I was
inclined to dress like my mother.
After all, she’s had a job for as long
as I’ve known her. It seemed a safe
bet that she had mastered Profes
sional Dress 101. Ah, my mother,
my mentor.
Oh, and I was coached that a
baseball cap would be inappropriate.
I must admit, it all seemed a bit silly.
The serious overtones. The pressure
to be something. With graduation
fast approaching, those near and
dear seemed to have lost sight of the
fact that I am just a kid.
A kid with kite dreams that I’m
not ready to watch escape beyond
the clouds.
Nonetheless, I set aside my
sneakers and my flannel for an
afternoon. I mustered all the “real
life perspective” I could and arrived
for the interview precisely three
minutes early.
“So, what type of job are you
looking for?” the interviewer asked.
Ouch.
Imagine his surprise when the
honest answer slipped out of my
mouth.
“I’m not looking for a job,
exactly.”
Kelly Johnson
“I told him that I
imagined I would
eventually continue a
life’s commitment to
learning in some sort of
professional setting. But
I hoped I wouldn’t pass
one day of this life at a
job. ’”
The sailing might have been
smoother had the interviewer asked
the question closer to the end of our
discussion. Some say any life’s
course is left to luck and timing.
Though he looked puzzled, he
allowed me to follow the path my
honesty had taken me. I told him
that I imagined I would eventually
continue a life’s commitment to
learning in some sort of professional
setting. But I hoped I wouldn’t pass
one day of this life at a “job.”
I believe in the powef of intention.
Although it’s probably unusual,
some people spend each day
productively seeking self-fulfill
ment. These are the people em
ployed to work as they are naturally
inclined or predisposed, and they
give back generously to the world
that
teaches them.
Take Minnesota Fats, for ex
ample. He lived his passion, which
happened to combine the techniques
of pool and a knack for betting.
Fats was a master of technique
and showmanship. Known as “the
sultan of stroke” and the “bankshot
bandit,” he earned his livelihood
with a cue in hand.
Fats never had a “job.”
There are innumerable ways to
pass the time. And I hope to experi
ence the full gamut of life’s possi
bilities.
Really, I’ve always wanted to be
just like Minnesota Fats. A pool
shark. A hustler.
I’ve become increasingly
interested in the dynamics of the
game. The speed of the ball. The
angles. The various spins.
I’m not particularly social. As
much as I appreciate a spot of brew,
I must admit, a bar’s most enticing,
elusive lure is-its games. Foosball.
Pinball. Pool.
It’s probably my dad’s fault. He
loves pool. I remember watching Fats
play Saturday afternoon games on
“Wide World of Sports” as a child.
Sadly, television is the only place
I will ever watch Minnesota Fats
play. The New York Times reported
Sunday, “The most famous pool
hustler in history died on Thursday.”
I’m young and still honing my
skills. As I have a way to go before
my confidence allows me to hustle, I
spend a fistful of quarters on any
given trip downtown.
But if I keep passing the time in
smoky pool halls, dropping the
tokens, maybe some of Fats’
inspiration will wear off on me. And
then if this writing stint doesn’t pan
out, I’ll have one more alternative to
getting a job.
Johnson Is a senior news-editorial and
English major and a Daily Nebraskan col
umnist
State of Union
a real nightmare
Matthew Watte
I had a dream last night. No,
make that a nightmare.
After giving a cursory listen to
the State of the Union message, and
laughing as Newt scowled for the
Republican freshmen, I dragged my
tired soul home.
After a full day of work, I was
ready for a good night’s sleep.
No such luck.
My nightmare started with a be
hind-the-scenes view of the State of
the Union message. Clinton was
wearing a red, white and blue silk
robe with a towel over his head. He
was bouncing on the balls of his
feet, throwing punches in the air.
Don King was there, yelling at
cabinet members. He was sounding
like his usual southem-baptist
preacher-on-the-skids.
It looked like something I had
seen before. And I don’t know how
I got there.
And why was Clinton wearing a
robe?
My question was answered
when the doors to the House floor
opened up to reveal a spotlighted
ring surrounded by a bunch of old
white men smoking cigars.
As I looked across the chamber,
I saw a procession of people walk
ing out of another aisle. Leading
them was a pair of large gentlemen,
pushing congressmen and senators
out of the way.
In their midst, in a red and blue
robe, marked only by a large el
ephant on the back, was Newt. He
had a red and a blue boxing glove
on, and he also was throwing
punches in the air.
Tensions rose as a mixed chorus
of cheers and boos spilled from the
chamber.
Guess what: the cheering was
split by party affiliation. Who
would have guessed?
And it got worse.
Michael Buffer was the ring an
nouncer.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, wel
come to tonight’s heavyweight bout
here in our nation’s capital.
“Let’s get ready to
ruuummmmbllllee!!”
Oh, the humanity.
“In this comer, hailing from At
lanta, Georgia, weighing in at an
even 300 pounds with a record of
44-0, with 38 knockouts, the chal
lenger, the Mouth of the South,
Newt Gingrich.”
The Republican side erupted
into raucous cheers. Democrats
booed. Newt was unphased. He just
rolled his head as his trainer, A1
D’Amato, one of New York’s great
“Newt, the shorter,
stockier fighter came
in on mostly flat feet.
The southpaw Clinton
danced around like
an overweight Sugar
Ray Leonard.”
est fight doctors, rubbed his shoul
ders.
“And in this comer, hailing out
of Little Rock, Arkansas, weighing
in at 325 pounds, with a record of
48-0 with 36 knockouts, the current'
President of the United States of
America, ‘Bubba’ Bill Clinton!”
Democrats cheered, Republi
cans booed, Clinton bounced
around and threw his hands in the
air.
The two fighters heard instruc
tions from the referee, Ross Perot,
touched gloves and went to their
comers.
Ding, ding.
They lumbered out to the middle
of the ring and started jabbing at
each other. Newt, the shorter,
stockier fighter came in on mostly
flat feet. The southpaw Clinton
danced around like an overweight
Sugar Ray Leonard.
And yes, Marv Albert called the
fight.
“Clinton dancing around, throw
ing few punches, sizing Gingrich
up.”
uingnch jat>s, uinton bobs ana
— OH!” Alberts yelled.
“I challenge all of you in this
chamber, never, ever shut the gov
ernment down again” Clinton’s
words echoed.
“A vicious combination from
Clinton!” Alberts yelled.
“Yes Marv,” George Foreman,
making an appearance as a color
man, said. “The combination of
“never, ever” really has Gingrich
reeling.”
Round after round. Back and
forth. Clinton landing blows,
Gingrich landing blows. By the end
of the fight, it looked like a Rocky
movie.
After the punching had stopped,
things grew quiet around the ring.
Clinton’s cut doctor, Secretary of
Energy Hazel O’Leary, was work
ing a cut over Clinton’s left eye.
Gingrich was receiving con
gratulations after the fight from
his manager, Bob Dole.
And then things got surreal.
The fight judges, the people
responsible for the decision at
hand, were not common folk. No
mom and pop types from all
across the land.
The judges were Greenpeace,
the National Rifle Association and
Steve Forbes.
My roommate said the scream
could be heard for blocks.
Waite is a junior news-editorial
major and a Dally Nebraskan associate
news editor
Hite Ucrt cum gustm ok .---——^
( I prefer ‘ethically challen^-'
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