NPR weekend shows suck
Can somebody please explain to me the appeal of Garrison Keillor? Or, "What do you Know?" Who pays for this crap? Yes, I know: 85 year-olds. OK, fine. They're entitled to entertainment, too...but isn't Judge Judy, Newhart, and the hateful broads who've covered the Caylee Anthony case every single day for the last year enough? Can we not screw up the weekends of people who actually need the time off? Apparently not.
One shouldn't complain, though. There is an exquisite sort of joy to be experienced by subjecting oneself to the horrible whims of Garrison's insensate hayseed blather, and Michael Feldman's...whatever. So, one must hear it all...every weekend. One must feel the pain.
I pretend to myself that I listen as a sort of penance for some unknown sin that just won't wash out. But really, it is a religious sort of agony that borders on orgasm to hear Keillor continually fail to be funny in strings of endless skits about jack shit-all, or to have him jump in like an overly-touchy relative on a duet with a singer light years more talented than he. Yes, it hurts, but the hurt is so acute, so perfectly unadulterated that it seems to circumvent even my nervous system and strangle the very core of my pain centers. The sweet brutality of enlightenment... THIS is what the Buddha was talking about! And as if A Prairie Home Companion wasn't sufficiently excrutiating, they follow it up with TWO friggin' episodes of the comic stylings of ...drum roll... Michael Feldman (fart). This stiff has somehow built a long-standing show around a smarmy voice, rambling-yet-abortive "wisecracks" on the poor saps he either gets on the phone or into the actual show taping, a couple of trivia questions...and a jazz piano interlude. By rights, What Do You Know should last 15 minutes, tops. But no. It never ends. It is a sort of asymptotic nightmare-cum-reality where one seems to be waking up only to find oneself further immersed in the horrid dream. This kind of deluded state is shared only by weekend NPR listeners, and prisoners of war...in Burma. It is to live inside a hellish soundscape that fades in and out, innnnn aaaaand oooooooout...until the prisoner is left screaming at the mice (or girlfriends) with whom they are trapped. And when it is over, when the barbed wire is finally pulled from around my genitals and the visions have subsided, I am in such a state of unbridled agitation that I probably look like some shamen on peyote standing on a bed of flaming nails in the middle of the Kalihari.
And I love it. Somebody help me.