If you're an Angeleno, you're probably familiar with Good Day LA; if not, Good Day is the vacuous, majestically amateurish morning talk show that, among its other crimes, launched the career of Jillian Barberie.
It is fantastically awful, insipid on a moment-to-moment basis in the way that only a program so of Los Angeles can be. In the mornings, I torture _margot_, who has not been in LA long enough to be inoculated against Good Day's idiocy, by turning it on before she's had her coffee. Oh, how I torture her!
But it recently occurred to me that such a show could be so much more compelling. I would like to create an entirely new morning talk show, very similar in format: three hosts, lots of pop culture chatter, just as airheaded - nay, more airheaded - as the original. The twist, however, is that the audience will know that at the start of the show's production, the hosts each signed a ten-year contract, and that at some point in those ten years, one host will be murdered - at the hands of one of the other hosts - and the other host will subsequently commit suicide. This will all happen live, on the air on some unspecified morning, but no one watching will know exactly when in the ten-year run these events will take place, nor who will die, who will murder or who will live. Until then, we would all just have to tune in day in and day out, the disquietingly chipper blather filling our heads more and more every morning until we can practically taste that sweet, sweet homicide just over the horizon. . .
* * * * * *
And now for some sad, cheese-related news: recently, the girl and I took a long coveted trip to Europe and Africa (many many many pictures are here). Because there was so much skedaddling around on various trains, planes and metros, it didn't make sense to buy much in the way of keepsakes since we would have to cart it with us.
One of the only exceptions I made (along with a few beers from Belgium) was a massive, beautiful, aggressively potent block of Parmigiano-Reggiano. This was the real deal, the DOP cheese bought directly from a formaggeria in Parma. For weeks, I churlishly hoarded my precious, unsealing it from its careful wrapping at the rarest of moments to indulge in a few delicious crumbles drizzled slightly with Balsamic Vinegar.
No more. Finally, after well over a month, we enjoyed our very last crumb. The Parmigiano-Reggiano, my treasured prize from Emilia-Romagna, is no more. This is probably just as well, since the way things were going, soon enough I would have begun sleeping with it under my pillow.
It is fantastically awful, insipid on a moment-to-moment basis in the way that only a program so of Los Angeles can be. In the mornings, I torture _margot_, who has not been in LA long enough to be inoculated against Good Day's idiocy, by turning it on before she's had her coffee. Oh, how I torture her!
But it recently occurred to me that such a show could be so much more compelling. I would like to create an entirely new morning talk show, very similar in format: three hosts, lots of pop culture chatter, just as airheaded - nay, more airheaded - as the original. The twist, however, is that the audience will know that at the start of the show's production, the hosts each signed a ten-year contract, and that at some point in those ten years, one host will be murdered - at the hands of one of the other hosts - and the other host will subsequently commit suicide. This will all happen live, on the air on some unspecified morning, but no one watching will know exactly when in the ten-year run these events will take place, nor who will die, who will murder or who will live. Until then, we would all just have to tune in day in and day out, the disquietingly chipper blather filling our heads more and more every morning until we can practically taste that sweet, sweet homicide just over the horizon. . .
* * * * * *
And now for some sad, cheese-related news: recently, the girl and I took a long coveted trip to Europe and Africa (many many many pictures are here). Because there was so much skedaddling around on various trains, planes and metros, it didn't make sense to buy much in the way of keepsakes since we would have to cart it with us.
One of the only exceptions I made (along with a few beers from Belgium) was a massive, beautiful, aggressively potent block of Parmigiano-Reggiano. This was the real deal, the DOP cheese bought directly from a formaggeria in Parma. For weeks, I churlishly hoarded my precious, unsealing it from its careful wrapping at the rarest of moments to indulge in a few delicious crumbles drizzled slightly with Balsamic Vinegar.
No more. Finally, after well over a month, we enjoyed our very last crumb. The Parmigiano-Reggiano, my treasured prize from Emilia-Romagna, is no more. This is probably just as well, since the way things were going, soon enough I would have begun sleeping with it under my pillow.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
subrosa:
Uhhh... no.
subrosa:
You sure it's not the Curse of George Brett? I mean, that bat DID have a lot of pine tar on it.