Something Unfunny is Going On

The Writers are still on strike.

I am most aware of it when I watch late night comedy.  Lately I have been horrified, or mortified, I am not sure which, or maybe both.  The censors don't allow the comics to say certain things, the networks put their foot down about this joke, that or the other, and the comics are reduced to strange jokes about dogs, and absolutely numbing skits about psychics.  Did that really happen? I say to myself.  Was that actually on a major network?

Humiliated for the brillliant men I see brought to their knees by writers who want more money, producers who don't want to lose their jobs, censors who I believe are in the same category as professional torturers, and the American public who just want to be entertained and could not care less about the thought that goes into it, I shut the TV and pull the blankets over my head.

Should I email them?  Tell them to stop the bulshit, cut the crap, break out of their fear and follow their star?  Should I write letters to newspapers talking about how this strike could potentially unleash a new wave of creativity among people who never knew they had it in themselves?

I think not.  All I need is police at my door.  The censors.  Don't, they will tell me, don't harass these television personalities.  Don't bother us with your troublemaking ideas.  Or off you go, to jail, the sanitorium or worse.  This country just does not need another crisis.  We are up to our heads in potential unrest as it is.

The writers are on strike.
The war in Iraq is raging.
The election is coming up and nobody really has any idea how that is going to turn out.
Not only that, but the stock market is falling.  It is down.  The arrows are pointing southward.  Recession on the horizon.  Wait.  Don't put that in the paper.

And, not to be repetitious, but of course, the writers are on strike.  Still.

On another note, my roommate snarled at me today.  Not a loud snarl, just a shake of the head and a silent snarl.  I hid out in my room for the rest of the day, reading old journals and smoking cigarettes.  I refuses to answer my phone when strange 866 numbers appeared.  I watched Pinky and the Brain on the internet.  Now, that is writing! I said to myself.

The salsa music is loud tonight.  I have candles on the windowsill.  It is snowing.  I wonder why cartoons seem to be the brightest light in network TV.  Why are the Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy and Pinky and the Brain the most intelligent pieces of social commentary that we have?

Maybe I am entering my second childhood.
Maybe it is time to start writing cartoons.
Maybe I should e-mail that comic and let him know that even though his show is bombing, he should not lose faith in himself.  Because creativity springs from wells we don't know exist.  We just have to look.