A daddy blog.

19 January 2004

We will teach our twisted speech to the young believers

Imagine my delight at discovering a New York Times Magazine article about Cartoon Network's beloved Adult Swim block of programming.

Would the writer look at how these shows--along with online cartoons--are reviving the short-film format that all the Golden Age cartoons were made in? Would he celebrate the inventiveness the creators pack into the miserly budget their corporate parent gives them? Would he at least do readers the service of quoting some of the more perfect one-liners from Sealab 2021?

No. Just an excuse to wring ones hands about "commercial detritus." Between this and the aforementioned New Yorker article, a sizable number of magazine-programmable Manhattan hiptards must now be questioning whether to abandon Aqua Teen-related banter entirely.

And then on TV tonight: the 35th anniversary of 60 Minutes. Gee-yads: all the usual palpable journalistic self-satisfaction you expect from the 60 gang, but without any news. The whole hour was the television equivalent of the ego-nut page of in every high-end magazine: You know, the page where the editor talks about how impressed with his own magazine, the award-winning writers inside, and you can almost hear the reverntial voice of James Lipton reading the whole thing.

Sarcastic example: "When trying to figure out how we manage to put together a magazine of this quality month after month, the mind boggles nigh to insanity. And yet somehow our incredible staff of writers/reporters/world-searchers has done it again. In your hands: a mind-blowing profile of man-god Brendan Frasier, a thrilling Dominick Dunne essay on the subject of his own cavernous navel, and some bogus adventure journalism. Plus, as always, a fashion shoot in some WASPy fantasyland (this month: country club snackbar). And you only payed $6.50 for this on the newstand. Try to live with yourself." Imagine Mike Wallace saying all this, and you've got the 60 Minutes anniversary.


It was a bad night's reading and writing the fruits of my profession. Thank greatness there's always delightfully idiotic animation handy on the web.