A Reality Show To End All Reality Shows

Picture this:

A Reality show with the top-ten Reality Show producers of all time. The premise?

Each one is given some cash, some cast and a set of their choosing. Each producer has to create a new kind of Reality Show each week. And, each show is then shown to the public. It would be a very interactive type thing. Fans could call in and cast their votes. (Maybe we could have a few judges too to give it an air of intelligence--some B-List directors that could sit and critique each episode.)

After each week, a producer is proverbially "kicked off the island." But to give it a twist (you need a twist) the producer who gets the lowest ratings is fed to a pool of hungry sharks.

This carries on until the last producer standing. And what happens to that one?

He/she gets fed to sharks too. And the Reality Show phase ends forever.

(I just hope the sharks are still hungry, after eating all that shit.)

Adam and the Bear

Folks, as promised, www.matthewhansen.net will be offering a free e-book to download in the next month. Here's a preview of the novella, called Adam and the Bear.

When Adam Winston first looked into the eyes of the bear he felt an overwhelming full-body fear that was as frosty and numb as the cold air of the cave he found himself in. (Weeks later, when the bear’s teeth crunched into his spine, Adam would remember this initial fear.) The massive brown Grizzly lay only five feet away; not close enough for Adam to smell the musky breath from the fanged mouth of the massive beast, but close enough to smell his sodden fur in the damp, dark grotto.

The bear lay almost motionless, save for his brown eyes which did not leave Adam’s; it seemed the bear had been waiting some time for him to awake. After staring into the deep eyes and lethargic snarl of the bear, Adam noticed (for the brief moment he took his eyes off the salivated glare) the bear’s giant head was highlighted with a small patch of blonde that fit like a skullcap. After a few more minutes, Adam swallowed for the first time, and tried to breathe normally. The palpable fear ebbed slightly as Adam tried to move, except he couldn’t. Initially Adam thought it was shock that precluded him from doing so. He breathed deeply, still staring at the bear who did the same, but couldn’t budge himself. It was now that Adam looked down to his leg.

His tibia bone was broken. It protruded out slightly at his kneebone – the bone was twisted and punctured his skin like a crack in a frozen popcan. When Adam ran his finger down along his knee it stung and he almost fainted feeling the bulge of bone. There was a rip the size of a palm print around his knee – it was just below that the bone burst through – and his skin was a sickly blackened grey colour. Blood was matted to his pants – it had clotted and created a thin layer over his skin like cellophane.

A Scene On The Highway Yesterday That Caused Me To Exhale Loudly

A black Hummer Humvee cuts right in front of me...

- There is a Jesus Fish on the trunk.
- There is a "Be Right, Be Straight" bumper sticker on the right side of the bumper (complete with a rainbow flag that is burning.)
- There is a "Vote Harpur, He Values You" bumper sticker on the left side of the bumper.
- The driver (husband) is talking on his cellphone
- The passenger (wife) is talking on her cellphone (assumedly, not to each other?)
- The two kids in the back are watching a T.V. that drops down from the ceiling.
- As the Hummer gets onto the exit ramp, the wife flicks a butt out the window, and follows up with chucking out a plastic twinkie wrapper....

Sigh.

I Can't Take Much Moore Of This Unholy Roman Empire

Now, before everyone misinterprets what I'm about to say: I think Michael Moore is a good guy, and the disgruntled former worker from Flint certainly has some true and interesting messages to give. Yes, yes, he does pull a few strings sometimes when it comes to making his point--but for the most part he's definitely on the right track.

And yes, yes-- Fahrenheit 9/11 is probably a good movie. But I am not going to see it. Why? As I explained to some friends last night who actually invited me to see the flick (yeah, it's still playing!) I have two main reasons:

1. It's depressing that it takes a sensationalist movie to teach people the truth about the way things are with the US Administration. Or the previous one. Or the previous one, or the...

The facts about the current president, his ties with the Saudis, the smacking of corruption and lies at every corner, the corporate interests--should be widely known by people already. Yes, yes, everyone blames the media--that big ugly giant that continually lies to us. But why can't people take it on themselves to read something apart from the mainstream newspapers? Why do we have to use the Devils Tools (movies) to do God's work (tell the truth)? Why has it taken this long for people to figure it out? For some, the information in the film is not new. And I don't say that with any condescension--there has been no "cover-up"--it's been on paper all the while--you just have to go to a library (as opposed to a convenience store or Chapters). So, my problem is it takes Harvey Weinstein, Miramax and other millionaires, to tell it to us--no, to shove it down our throats. Isn't that kind of pathetic, and sad? Isn't that just as bad as the tricks the corporate media magicians play on us? Not allowing citizens to examine an issue in a rational-critical debate; merely ramming a point down our throats until we absorb it like a sponge?

2. Movies like this make the political spectrum seem quite polarized. The conclusion is the current president is a boob, a dork, a crook and a liar. Great--so are Americans to vote for John Kerry? Canadians for Paul Martin? These supposed "left-wing" politicians, who double as corporate-interested millionaires? They may be alternatives to something dire, but they are still propagating the status quo--just a teensy bit less, perhaps. But "make no mistake about it", they will not cure the world's ills. They don't have the people's interest at heart--how can they when their pockets are lined with gold? I mentioned to some friends last night how humorous it was to hear some blue collar workers speak so highly about their oppressor, local conservative Belinda Stronach, and how she "is a great politician because she is so rich she will be very honest--she doesn't need any more money!" First of all, people with money always need more money. And secondly, you don't think Paul Martin is a millionaire? Why dontcha check those facts and get back to me....

I think Moore does some great editing in his work, and has some good (although quite simplistic) points that need to be made. As I have said before, the Right is at an advantage--they can make great sound bytes because they are not proposing an alternative--it's the Left that is. For many middle class North Americans, life ain't bad. So as long as we forget about the 3 billion people living in poverty, the fact that a few percent of the world own everything, and that life generally sucks ass outside of the West---why change it? Just close your eyes, turn on the T.V. and faghetaboutit....

My Mouth Is A Weapon of Mass Destruction

You think it's possible to get some kind of Ritalin dispenser implanted into my molar? 'Cuz man, I gotta learn to shut up more.

Was being a piétonnier the other day on a rather busy walking street. A botoxxed-looking smiley girl with a clipboard comes up to me, telling me all about some great new incentive program/miles/club

andhowyouhavetojoinyouwillgetallthis greatstuffsignsignsign hereitjusttakesasecondsojust signhereandwowyougetafreetotebag

And, well, it was all Ol' Matty could do to avoid his social activist berzerker mode. I began quite a fiery soliloquoy about the facade of most all incentive programs--capitalism's trick to get us to buy more. On and on about how it's all just a scam to make us use more cashola--the only "incentive" is theirs--they want us to buy more stuff. That no matter what, we are never actually "saving" money. Because if we were--why would they offer it to us? Corporations are trying to make money; they aren't trying to do us any favours. We spend, spend, spend, and eventually, perhaps, after 10 million points, we get a free suitcase. (To take on our trip, which we will need to buy a flight for--but hey--we'll get Air Miles.)

I said all this with such braggadocio that, after finally finishing off my monologue, I realized this girl thought I was a total nutter. She probably works on some kind of commission too. So not only does she now think I'm insane, I've also cost her a few bucks.

That's incentive enough to get a new job, I hope. For her sake. Maybe I can hire her to implant a Ritalin patch into my shoulder?

Strange Daze At The House Of Commodities

Two quite queer things that occured to me while at the mall yesterday--my least favourite place. ("Why were you there, then?" I had to get a new cellphone--my least favourite thing.)

I was in Old Navy getting some boxers. ("Why were you in Old Navy, getting boxers?" I'm not sure. I saw a 'Sale' sign and my pre-programmed brain followed it like a thirsty man in the desert would follow a 'Water' sign.)

Anyway. Here's funny episode number 1:

Approaching the cash, with my two sets of boxers firmly in hand, the polite 17-year-old Old Navy employee (complete with a fancy headset so she can communicate with ?, and wearing 300 dollars of Old Navy clothes--employees have to buy a whole outfit before they even start--and keep it current too. Kinda defeats the point of a paycheque, eh? But I digress...again.)

Anyway, the Old Navy girl says to me, politely, as I lay down my boxers:

"Hello," she beams, performing a task I am still incapable of--folding, "And did you get everything you were looking for today?"
"No," I reply quickly.
"Oh!" she says, sounding quite surprised (I guess most people are usually more satiated upon spending money, like a satiated Lion full of Gazelle guts), "Well, what was it you were looking for?"
"Something," I say, looking into her eyes, "Something original."

ZING!

And funny thing number 2.

After that episode, I went to a hatstore. When I say hatstore, I don't mean something a Hatter would frequent--these are baseball caps, no more, no less. Anyway, something quite strange strikes my eye--a hammer-and-sickle ballcap. Well, I know that being a Commie is quite cool (perhaps it's the new black?) or at least wearing an emblem of said ideology--but a mass-produced CCCP ballcap was a bit odd, to put it mildly. And, as I turned it round--it was made by Nike, no less. It was so perfectly paradoxical I had to make mention of this ridiculous irony to someone.

"So," I said, pointing to the hat and speaking with the 19-year-old hatgirl (yes, she was wearing a hat, too), "What do you think Karl Marx would say about a hat like this?"

She looked at me, then the hat, then cocked her head to the side and replied:

"The comedian?"

I put the hat back, smiled weakly and left the mall--swearing to myself never to return again.

How To Build An Automatic High Pressure Xanax Sprayer

We all know that drivers are cutthroat scoundrels. These days everyone drives "offensively" - not allowing someone to merge lanes, glaring angrily, tailgating so close it could count as sodomy - all that stuff. Driving has really turned into a "I'm number one" kinda deal. No one respects anyone else, or cares about anyone else or his/her well-being. You know what I mean? I regularly see people that get so violent and angry on the roads I almost wish there was some kind of automatic Xanax sprayer in the carwash that could settle everyone down.

But the paradox is this: There is only one time when drivers exhibit any kind of respect or solidarity for each other. And, of course, it's the strangest and perhaps most wrong time to do so. Can you guess it?

Imagine driving along and seeing a car approaching in another direction. What does that car do? He/she flashes his high beams in case you are speeding - there's a radar trap up ahead.

So we only care about our fellow man when the Five-O is involved, I guess.

Sigh. So much for solidarity and all my pinko-hippy yang.

Green's the new Black, Pink's the new White and You're the new Me

Right. So I'm walking along in the airport and I say to myself, I say, "Ol' Matty, I think Green is a very, very hip colour. I need to get some nice Green t-shirts."

I'm smiling as I do this. Green's a great colour. A muchos fashionable girl once told me I was a "winter" guy. I remember that: I'm supposed to wear browns and greens; apparently this matches my eyes and hair and "aura" and will make me incredibly beautiful and all the girls will like me and want to marry me and have hundreds of children and make fancy dinners for me. So I figure, hell - GREEN is a winter colour. And it's such a cool colour.

As I continue walking along, planning on just how many nice Green t-shirts I am going to buy that will revitalize my incredible new sense of fashion, I notice a guy walking in the opposite direction wearing the *exact* colour of Green shirt I wanted. I smile at him, give him the thumbs up and a very masculine head nod, which for some strange reason he quickly looks away from.

I'm still beaming about how I just all of a sudden can't stop thinking about Green t-shirts, and soon enough, I see another person, this time a hip looking teenager, wearing the same colour Green I have been envisioning. And a few steps later, another 20-something wearing Green.

And another person.

And another.

And another.

By the time I got to the exit I had seen 12 people wearing the exact colour of Green that "I had come up with" to be a cool, hip coloured t-shirt. The colour I had decided...on my own...that was going to be a great colour of shirt for me to wear. Did I come up with the idea myself, I start thinking? My god...has the Machine infiltrated my mind again?

No, I tell myself. I'm original. I'm my own person.

I get to the parking lot, turn on the Ol' Car and listen to the radio. The girl on the radio is going on and on to her co-host about how she just went shopping for new clothes. She got a bunch of new shirts, she says. What colours, he asks her.

"Well, lots of Green!" she boasts, "Didn't you know? It's the new Black!"

She's such a booktease

Sure, I gots lots to say. Sure, I could complain about the most silliest things today. Instead, why not give the first paragraph of the manuscript I'm working on. Go nuts, say what you gotta say - y'all love it or hate it?

Basher

The reason I think neither of these two has a gun is because I think they would have pulled it out of their black trench coats by now, just a touch so I could have seen it. They have been following me since I left Hushpuppies after last call. It was only four blocks to the subway, but they walked right behind me the whole time. At each stoplight they’d stand there, right beside me, probably wanting me to turn to face them. Now they’re right behind me in same turnstile. As I turn and head for the platform I see the first one’s hand out of the corner of my eye as he passes the ticket. The cars are waiting with open doors, and they walk behind me until I stop in front of the third car from the front, waiting just until the whistle blows before I hop on. I sit directly facing the door, back upright, staring ahead, and put my black leather knapsack on my lap.

The two of them sit down in the corner to the right of where I am. I can see all of the first, and most of the second, by the angled reflection in the door window. My eyes are focused on the glass, not blinking, and barely moving. I can feel my chest rising and falling slowly, rhythmically. I’d guess they are either an old-looking 19, or a young 21. The first has pimples, I think. Both of them have quite a few piercings on their ears, nose and each has one labret. I bet they get infected a lot. Both have dyed black hair that match their jackets (the first has a big pot leaf on the lapel, the second has a pentagram, I think) and knee high leather Docs. There’s a chain on both their pants from the belt to the pocket. They almost could pass as twins, except the first is about a foot taller. He’s probably almost as tall as me.