THE GREAT GADFLY:

Burn, Bridge, Burn!



There were two things I was going to complain about today, but I forget what one of those things was going to be, so I guess it was so miserable as to be downright negligable. So to whomever or whatever that negligible thing is or was, regardless of whether or not I should ever recall what it was, TO HELL WITH YA ANYWAY.

Here's the other thing I have to complain about today (and it's been a while since I've thrown a proper pity party, so if this comes off as a little indulgent, well, I don't know what to tell ya.):

So a few weeks ago, I made mention that I was contacted by a certain broadcasting company that provides radio to the public, and they wanted me to provide some national public rants based on some work of mine they'd seen online. Of course, visions of freebie tote bags danced through my head and when the person inquiring asked me if I'd be free to "come in and cut a track", how could I say no?

My first action was to send them this. Didn't really get much of a response, though they were generally enthusiastic without much specific fanfare. I heard back from them a week later, when they e-mailed me and asked if I would be interested in doing a pop-culture humor commentary piece on Madonna's kiddie-book enterprise. Sure, I said. Why not?

So I immediately cranked something out and shuttled it off to the broadcasting folks, they got back to me with notes and suggestions, and I then cranked out a revised version of the piece with the notes and suggestions reflected in the work, and then I spent the entire next day on the edge of my rubber coffin, waiting nervously for some sort of yay-or-nay from these people. Finally, that evening I got a puff or two of smoke in my e-mailbox. My story was passed around at an editor's meeting. One editor thought I was "too mean" (ME?!), and another editor was willing to take me on, though he felt I needed some refining.

The next day, I started working with this new editor. He wanted me to use less one-liners and rely less on schtick. Oh, and to remember that I'm writing for an audience of mostly fifty-year-olds.

In my own head, I responded in my sassiest JaNet DuBois drawl: "So let me get this mess straight: You want ME. To write a humor piece. About MADONNA. Writing CHILDREN'S BOOKS. Without one-liners or schtick? ME?! Booger, PLEASE!"

Out loud, I said, "hey, sounds great!"

Then he chimed in with, "we were thinking maybe you could do a parody of what Madonna's writing would be like."

Without schtick.

Ummm. Okay.

So I translated a monolog from 'Night Mother into German and ended it with the money-shot paragraph from some donkey porn erotic fiction I found on the web, wrapping the whole thing up with a quote on curtain rod maintenance by Jane Austin. It was daring, quaint and chocked with cheeky irreverence.

Okay, I didn't do that at all.

Instead, I kicked out the schtick bigtime. I pulled out the confetti cannons and the seltzer bottles and the clowns came prance-prance-prancing out of the tiny circus schtickwagen. I channeled the muses of Rip Taylor and Ruth Buzzi. "Shame" was a word erased from my writer's wortk ethic.

And as a reward for my self-sabotage, I haven't heard from the broadcasting people since. I've called. I've e-mailed. It's as if they've completely disappeared.

I'd like to think I've outdone myself. I'd like to think I've written something so repugnant, it's frightened people away from their jobs. I mean, most people who suck at least get the courtesy of a rejection letter or a "we're sorry, but..." phone call. But not me, you see. After a period of them pushing me to "turn this around fast!", they've taken almost two weeks (and counting) to even tell me I'm not cut out for the radio's national public. "Don't make me call him!" I hear them saying to their bosses. "I might get the suck disease! I can literally FEEL his suckiness vibrating through the phone! I don't want to die of The Suck! PLEASE!"

I mean, if yer gonna suck, you might as well suck with verve.

So alas, this American life is back to that of 9-to-5 mundanity, with a couple of ol' eggs slowly incubating in other baskets. David Sedaris I'm not?! Shew, that was a close one. The only thing I want in common with the nation's most recently appointed Clever Gay Guy is to have my rants square-bound with a nifty cover and maybe to get my collab on with Jerri Blank. Nothing against the guy - he's indeed snarky and brilliant and "laugh out loud funny!" and all that, but the next time I tell someone I write, and I write funny things, and I get "oooh, like David Sedaris!" in response...there will be carnage.

Anyway, here's the schtickfest I wrote for the publicly-directed radio of our nation. I don't like my leftovers going to waste, after all:

ARE YOU THERE, GOD? IT'S ME, MADONNA

Ten years ago, I was flipping through Madonna's first book, which was for some reason titled Sex. I remember noticing a picture of the Material Girl behind a barn spanking the rapper Vanilla Ice. At that moment, I put down the magnifying glass and said to myself, "This woman could easily be the next Madelaine L'Engle."

So naturally, I squealed with joy to the news of Madonna's impending series of children's books. Her pre-pubescent prose is set to be published by the veddy British Penguin Books, starting with this September's "The English Roses," a whimical tale of a jolly red fox and a naughty little prince. I know what you're thinking - What? No supermodels in thongs ?

[cue music: "Erotica" by Madonna]

For some, this might be the scariest thing to happen to children's entertainment since Pee Wee Herman's Christmas special. And who are we kidding? It's easy to take the low road on this one. Admit it, you're thinking of smutty children's book titles right now: "The Princess and the Pee-Pee", "Are You There God? It's Me, Madonna", "Lourdes Has Two Baby-Daddies" and "One Spank, Two Spanks, Three Spanks - Hooray!"

But this is a gal who's been sharpening her artistic chops for years. After all, Madonna is a consummate pop rennaissance artist who's done her best to make the world forget about such early stinkers as "Body of Evidence" and "Shanghai Surprise" by blessing the world with newer, even more banal gems like "The Next Best Thing" and "Swept Away". Our eyes may still be sore, but I think it's time we forgave and forgot Mrs. Ritchie her notorious trespasses. We must move forward and embrace her next bold step of world domination - namely, invading the unformed minds of toddlers everywhere.

[cue music: "Express Yourself" by Madonna]

Children need to be prepared for the real world, and I say nobody is more suited for this task than the woman who made it hip to dance in a field of burning crosses. Our sons and daughters need to know what a "Hollywood wax" is, they need to know how to work platform Prada boots, and for heaven's sake, who else can offer advice on how to navigate an Oscar night date with Michael Jackson?

Okay, now I know I'm starting to tread on creepy ice, but is it so wrong that I want the kids of today to know how to juggle an interview with Vanity Fair while stimulating their chakras and tuning a stratocaster? Who doesn't want the best for their children?

Multitasking is everything in the 21st Century, and you can bet your organic soy latte that our Judy Blume in a g-string is the gal to pen morality tales for the SUV generation. I can see her now, wearing her gold tooth and that pointy bra, leading our young like a sultry pied piper to the ashram, to Sak's Fifth Avenue, and beyond.

Now, if someone can talk Courtney Love and Marilyn Manson into remaking the feel-good children's classic "Free to Be...You and Me", we can have a truly honest reason to worry for our children's future.




2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

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