Somewhere between getting up yesterday and getting on the subway on the way home, I got sick. As the D train hit Atlantic Avenue my glands inflated like someone pulled the strings on a life vest, and by the time I was home all I could do was lay on the couch and moan for Brad to bring me blankets. I took my last available sick day today and spent my immobile hours drinking deep the sweet healing nectar of daytime television.
Why don't I have a daytime television show? Network programming between the hours of ten o'clock and two o'clock is nothing but a depository for folks possessing dubious credentials and the ability to talk ad infinitum. Isn't that me? I have a degree in creative writing with a concentration in poetry. Doesn't that make me a life coach? Can't I be a guide in the Starting Over house with Iyanla, who, I swear to God, said to a woman today: "It's haaaard to get a stripper off the pole. It's haaard. You know why? Because they haaarden...their hearts."
Where's my half hour docudrama? I'm high on Robitussin and I could crap out better lines than that.
Then in the late afternoon you get the one-two punch of Oprah and the Tyra Banks show. Both have somehow been given an hour of programming every weekday during which they get to conduct their personal business on camera and call it entertainment. This afternoon Oprah hosted a detente session between Terry McMillan and her gay ex-husband, though it seemed to me that they now get along and the strife they had been going through during their divorce had been settled a few years ago. The show wasn't about women whose husbands come out, or divorce, or anything broader than a chatfest between Oprah, her friend, and their gay punching bag. Similarly, Tyra had a show on the "dark side of modeling," which involved mostly Tyra interrupting her guests to hammer home the point that she has never done drugs, never had an eating disorder, and never done anything even vaguely salacious. Still, she insisted, the show was for "all the young girls out there" trying to break into the modeling world. She wants to make a difference.
"I was always so jealous of the Ford models when I was young," she said. "Their agency always stocked their fridge, got them food, made sure they were taken care of...I had to go to McDonalds! My agency wasn't getting me anything!"
Tyra, I think I speak on behalf of all of the girls out there when I say you can cry me a river. Your employer didn't buy you food.
I guess what I'm saying is that if every untalented wiener in the world can have a daytime talk show on network television, why can't I? This blog isn't nearly masturbatory enough. I need a palpable, clapping audience. I need guests that I can interrupt to tell rambling stories about my vast and uninteresting life experience. I need to know that there are hundreds and thousands of people sitting in day old socks on their couches wondering whether my hair color is natural.
My Starting Over house would be filled with recovering sex addict male models who just need to be loved. I would clutch them to my bosom with great gentleness and suggest that they get back to nature by removing their shirts.
It would be such a hit. I'd run Tyra right into the ground.