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MASH: No more

November 22, 2006

This may be the wrong time to say this, due to the untimely death of Robert Altman, but I can’t watch any more episodes of M*A*S*H.

It’s a show that still holds the honor of having the most-watched series finale of all time. But here’s a little known rumor that I’m going to continue to spread about the Nielsen families. We hear a lot of speculation in the TV circuit about the ratings system’s flaws back in the day.

And "MASH" is supposed to be the prime example.

In a time when television was just beginning to explore it’s political side, or “TV that means something” – "MASH" was doing a show about war. And though many of the Neilsen families weren’t watching it, (because let’s be honest, it’s just not that funny) a lot of them were writing into their "watching journals" that they were. Hence the huge ratings. This is, let’s be clear, just a rumor we’ve heard a few times. And there’s no real way to be sure. But boy, that makes sense.

And for a show about war – that laugh-track! And that guy in that dress! It’s on every time a baseball game is rained out I have to sit there, slogging my way through another episode where basically this happens:

1.) Someone gets in trouble because they aren’t taking the war seriously enough. Usually the trouble starts with a drunken clown-doctor with a clever nickname who is called a slacker by the uptight guy, or the blonde woman who’s supposed to be mannish.

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It's Greek To Me: The Paternity Test

November 17, 2006

In an age of manipulated, polished reality television where even the most boring folk seem positively witty, and the most benign situations appear action packed, I long for the old days. The simplicity of unfettered, unedited emotion, the kind that can't be doctored in post-production.

These days I can only find drama like that in one place: in the pure horror of the Paternity Test a la "Maury Povich." It is gruesome, and yet I cannot resist. Call it television rubbernecking.

It's a modern day Greek tragedy in two minute segments, complete with the wronged ladies splaying themselves on the ground in a pool of tears -- microphone packs be damned -- as the blood-thirsty spectators cheer from the amphitheater seats.

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