Chronic Fatigue

My Mattress Buying Nightmare: A Cautionary Bedtime Tale

Let me start off with a disclaimer: If you haven't purchased a new mattress recently, this post will probably be of little interest.  However, if you've just bought a mattress — or plan to buy one soon — keep reading.  I think you will be able to relate only too well to my story.

Until a few months ago, the word "mattress" was barely even in my vocabulary.      I had been sleeping on an ancient, 25-year-old hand-me-down mattress.  True, it was getting a bit lumpy.  And once in a while,  I would feel an ancient spring pushing through.  But it was my bed and I was perfectly content to sleep in it. 

My significant other, however, hated the mattress.  He started issuing ultimatums, threatening, "It's the mattress or me."  In retrospect, I should have said, "The mattress stays. You can go." But it's too late for that now.  Far too late.

So began our Mattress Buying Adventure in Hell.

Our story started out in the usual way; with us traipsing around from store to store, trying out beds.  We went to department stores.  We went to chain stores.  We went to small, independent stores.  And like all new mattress shoppers, we quickly learned that the system is rigged.  The mattress retailers are out to deliberately deceive and confuse you.  And no matter how clever you think you are at this mattress game, you won't outsmart them. Trust me, they are going to win.  And one way or another, you are going to part with a lot of money (ca-ching! ca-ching!)

First, as every mattress shopper knows, the industry makes it almost impossible to comparison shop.  Every store has their own models, with their own different, exclusive names.  Say you like a Serta "Perfect Day/Taurus" at one store.  When you go to a different store, you won't find the same bed.  Or, you'll find it under the Serta "Trump Home Collection" (yes, Donald Trump has his own brand of mattresses...ick).  Or something like it.  Or not very much like it at all.  Or they will tell you that particular bed was last year's model and is no longer available.  Even though you just saw that bed at another store fifteen minutes ago.               The confusion goes on and on.  It's maddening.  Intentionally so.

Then there are the return policies.  When it comes to buying a mattress, the store's return policy matters.  A lot.  Some stores have a 60-day return/exchange policy.  Some have a 100-day policy.  Some allow no returns or exchanges at all.  Which is a problem.  Because the fact is, when you buy a new mattress, you really don't know if you are going to like it until you've slept on it for about a month or two.  You have to "break it in".  Of course, by then, the entire experience may have broken your spirit and made you question your will to live…or at least your need for sleep.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Back to the shopping...

A few words about the mattress stores.  You know those big mattress retailers who advertise a sale virtually every day of the year?  Here in San Francisco, we have several of those stores all lined up on one block.  I call it “Mattress Death Row”.     I have made numerous visits to every one of these  fluorescent-lit emporiums of pain, and I now dread stepping inside their doors.  The signs on their doors should say, “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here…And Abandon Your Wallets While You’re At It”.

Mattress salespeople are frequently compared to used car salesmen.  I think this is unfair to used car salesmen.  At some mattress chain stores, the sales staff practically ooze sleaze. You walk in and encounter a sales guy, perched like a vulture, ready to swoop down on his innocent prey and point him or her towards the priciest, top of the line Serta, Sealy or Simmons (the “S-brands”).  These mattress-peddling predators can barely disguise their contempt for the customers.  That contempt is only surpassed by the air of self-loathing that surrounds this breed.  They hate their jobs.  And I don’t blame them.

In other stores, however, I have to admit the sales people were quite friendly, low-pressure, and infinitely patient.  And believe me, they need patience.  At one such store, which I now fondly refer to as “SleepTrainWreck” , a young sales guy looked on for over an hour as my boyfriend and I ran back and forth between assorted Sertas and Sealys, arguing  over which mattress to buy.  I actually thought we would break up in that store.  But we didn't.  Instead, we were so worn down by the process, and so desperate to make a decision and get the hell out of there, we finally bought a mattress:  A Stearns and Foster "Governor's Palace Euro Pillowtop” that cost about twice as much as we intended to pay (ca-ching! ca-ching!).  The weary sales guy threw in some free pillows to sweeten the deal (more about those pillows later).

Now, you may ask, what was so difficult about choosing a mattress?  An innocent enough question.  But if you have to ask, then you haven't bought a mattress lately.

Once upon a time, buying a mattress was simple.  You chose from "Soft", "Medium" or "Firm".  There were coils inside, and probably some cotton or horse hair, covered with thin (cool) cotton ticking.  Sadly, those days are gone.  Today’s mattresses are overly complicated, gimmick-laden slabs, filled with a host of mysterious, mostly synthetic materials that don't breathe.  There are wrapped coils.  There are unwrapped coils.  There are  individual coils.  There are no coils.  And there are endless, conflicting opinions on which one is best.

As for the materials, all the big name manufacturers use a combination of either Latex , Memory Foam, or some other generic foam.  Memory Foam is notorious for "sleeping warm".  So if you "sleep warm", like I do, you have to avoid it like the plague.  Latex is supposed to be cooler, but the jury is still out on that.  Plus, there are many different types of Latex.  Are you getting tired?  Me too.  I now know more about this topic than I ever cared to know.  Let's just say: it's complicated.  And, the fact is, you can try out the bed for hours in the store.  But you don't really know how you are going to like your new mattress until it's home and broken in.  As one blogger on a mattress forum so aptly put it, a mattress is "the one big ticket item where parts are concealed and enigmatic."  In other words: Buyer, beware. 

The new mattresses are also bigger than before.  Much bigger.  In fact, they are now behemoths.  I have no idea why people like these huge, heavy beds.  I even read that interior decorators loathe them. http://www.nytimes.com/1999/04/15/garden/the-new-beds-a-step-or-two-up.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm

But apparently, there is a huge market for huge beds.  Supposedly, a lot of women like them because they make them "feel like princesses".  I don't get it.  But there are so many things I don't get.

We knew our new bed would be higher than the old bed.  So we purchased the "mini" box springs.   Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the day the new bed arrived.  An enormous delivery truck pulled up, and I watched in horror as three deliverymen wrestled the new, behemoth (king) mattress out of the truck, and up three flights of stairs.  When they took away my old bed, I practically cried.  When they put the new mattress onto the frame, I practically went into shock.  It was gigantic.  The bed now resembled a huge, mile-high throne in the middle of the bedroom.  It dwarfed everything else in the room.  When I climbed up onto the bed (which took considerable effort), I was suddenly peering down on a bird's eye view of my bedside table. I didn’t feel like a princess.  I felt more like Gulliver.

Before we could even judge how we liked the comfort of the bed, the "mini" box springs had to be changed out for even mini-er box springs.  That meant another trip to SleepTrainWreck, another separate purchase so as not to forfeit our one mattress return allowance (ca-ching! ca-ching!), and yet another delivery.

Once we had lowered the mattress to a reasonable, human height, we quickly realized that the "pillowtop" made the mattress very mushy.  We'd sink in so deep, we started calling it "The Mosh Pit".  It was also much too warm.  The fault of the pillowtop?  The latex mattress?  Impossible to say.  But we were sweating and needed to do something.

I had seen ads for a "cooling mattress pad" made with "NASA Outlast technology".  I immediately ordered one (ca-ching! ca-ching!).  The day the pad arrived, it had such a strong chemical smell, we had to launder it right away.     The directions said it was ok to put it in the washer and drier.  So we did.            On Low.   The mattress pad disintegrated in the drier.  It just completely melted.  The Cooling Mattress folks apologized profusely and sent us a replacement pad.     We are still using it.  But honestly, it isn't any cooler than any other pad.  So much for NASA technology. 

Bottom line, after several months of trying to adjust to The Mosh Pit, we knew it had to go.

Thus began another endless round of shopping, researching, and lying on countless beds in countless stores.  It was clear that every mattress came with a trade-off.  The mattress would have some type of "cooling construction" -- great! -- but it would be too firm.  Or it would be just the right softness, but have too much Memory Foam.  Or the store wouldn't allow any returns. Or...the list went on and on.  At one point, we were tempted to buy an old-fashioned, cotton/coil mattress from a well-known local manufacturer.  We could have had one -- for about the price of a new car.  So it was back to the evil "S"-brands with their polyurethanes, foams and scary list of unknowns.

It was discouraging and exhausting.  But…I wasn't alone.  I soon discovered that the Internet is crawling with other miserable mattress owners/shoppers, all complaining bitterly about their new mattresses.  The mother of all these sites is an industry-sponsored site called "What's the Best Mattress", http://www.whatsthebest-mattress.com/login.php?err=post&ref=%2Fforum%2Fpost.php%3Fp%3D19276&refn=

This website became my go-to resource and support group all in one.  Log on, and you enter a world of hurt.  There are literally hundreds of comments from people complaining about every possible make and model of mattress.  There are disgruntled pillowtop owners.  People complaining about collapsed mattresses.  Or mattresses that “outgas” chemical fumes.  Or that hurt their backs, shoulders or necks.  Others complain about an uncomfortable phenomenon called "Latex Pushback".  There are even people offering advice on how to perform "mattress surgery".  Yes, you heard that right.  These folks will tell you in agonizing detail how to cut open your brand new mattress to either remove or add your own fillers.  It's unreal.  I mean...doesn't the industry know we HATE their products?

In the end, we finally settled on a Simmons Beauty Rest “Pemberton Plush” (mattress names are clearly designed to make the buyers feel like royalty, instead of poor, sleepless schmucks who had to take out a loan to purchase a damn bed).  The new mattress arrived this week, and so far, it feels very comfy.  However, to my dismay, it also feels…very warm.  But I won’t go there (not yet).

We returned the The Mosh Pit to SleepTrainWreck.  They gladly refunded our money, or at least part of it.  First, they deducted for the old box springs we had already returned (ca-ching! ca-ching!).  Oh, and remember those "free" pillows?  Well, we had to pay for those, too...or return them after months of use (ca-ching! ca-ching! ca-ching!). 

Like I said, you can't win at this game.

 

 

 

 

History, Interrupted

The television screen was filled with images of thousands of Egyptians joyously celebrating in the streets of Cairo.  There, on the left side of the screen, in large cap letters, were the words "MUBARAK STEPS DOWN".

I knew I was witnessing a moment in history.  Moments such as these happen only a few times in our lifetimes.  I wanted to soak it in.

But while the Egyptians were celebrating their historic moment, other important news was fighting for my attention.  My eye kept going to the endless crawl on the bottom third of the screen.  There, in slightly smaller type, I was informed of several momentous events happening right here at home:

Lady Gaga releases highly anticipated new single, 'Born This Way"

Kid Rock defends decision to perform in snowy Arkansas

Lindsay Lohan tweets "I would never steal"

Donald Trump to consider running as GOP challenger in 2012

Scarlett Johansson representative knocks down rumors that Scarlett is dating Sean Penn

Thank you, MSNBC, for interrupting coverage of a major world event with headlines ripped from The National Enquirer.  As always, you managed to trivialize important news with total trivia.

There was a time when crawls were reserved for major breaking news, sports scores and emergencies.  Today, that batshit crazy crawl is with us all the time.  That's bad enough.  But now, the steady stream of headlines moving along the bottom of our tv screens includes an increasingly absurd mashup of legitimate news and "Showbiz Tonite" gossip. 

The line between hard news and entertainment is now blurrier than those nighttime scenes of Cairo's Tahrir Square.  And there is no going back.

How I yearn for those halcyon days before the crawl.  The days before broadcasters decided to treat the audience as if we all suffer from A.D.D. and need a 24/7 drip of inane celebrity gossip to hold our collective attention.

When the Apollo 11 moon landing happened in 1969, millions of us sat mesmerized for hours in front of our tv screens.  Can you imagine if Neil Armstrong's first step on the lunar surface had to compete with a news ticker announcing the entertainment headlines of the day?   Picture, if you will, Walter Cronkite narrating those grainy, black and white shots of Neil Armstrong emerging from the lunar module, while a ticker along the bottom of the tv screen read:

Eddie Fisher and Connie Stevens call it quits

Disney's "The Love Bug" highest grossing film of 1969

The Archies' "Sugar Sugar" tops the charts for 4th consecutive week

Twiggy celebrates 20th BD

"The Dating Game" begins fifth season

Would the moon landing have seemed half as riveting with the day's pop culture headlines dragging us back down to earth?    

Now, no event – no matter how significant – is important enough to merit our total focus.  And no pop culture tidbit is too trivial to be deemed unworthy of our undivided attention.  I never thought I'd see the names "Hosni Mubarak" and "Lindsay Lohan" sharing the same screen.  But in today's world – where we no longer distinguish between news and nonsense – those kinds of juxtapositions are the norm. 

Just once, I'd like to watch the news – or any program, for that matter – without that crazy, "Trivial Pursuits" crawl parading across the lower third.  Maybe the crawl should be optional, like closed captions.  That would be an improvement     (I wonder how many viewers would choose to keep the "crawl" option            turned on?).

Or maybe the so-called news media will come to their senses and decide to focus just on the news.  Now, that would be truly revolutionary.  And completely unlikely.

God forbid if World War III breaks out anytime soon.  Just as the missiles are headed towards our shores, we'll look up at our television screens for the last time and gasp as we read: 

WORLD COMES TO AN END!

Kim Kardashian admits to having liposuction...

Snookie enters rehab...

Justin Beiber introduces shampoo line...

Waiting For My Poinsettia To Die

So, I've been meaning to write about my poinsettia plant.           I would have done it sooner, except I didn't know how to spell "poinsettia". 

Over the holidays, a friend gave me a poinsettia plant as a gift (or, in the parlance of today, she gifted me with a poinsettia).  I placed it on my kitchen table, where it added just the right touch of color and festive cheer to my drab surroundings. 

The poinsettia continued to grace my kitchen table throughout the month of December.  I watered it faithfully, and tended to its dried leaves, doing my best to keep the plant healthy and preserve its bright crimson cheeriness.

By the time New Year's rolled around, the poinsettia was still thriving.  And I was still watering it, although not quite as enthusiastically.  I mean, everyone had already discarded their Christmas trees and holiday wreaths...it was time to move on.  To water or not water?  That was my dilemma.  I felt guilty if I withheld water, but at the same time, I didn't particularly want to nourish the damn thing and prolong its life (and my suffering).

By mid-January, I was practically ignoring the poinsettia.  And feeling terribly guilty about it.  The thing is, the plant was starting to wreak havoc with my whole sense of Feng shui.  What looked so right during the holiday season, no longer looked right at all.  In fact, it looked very, very wrong.  It's not the poor poinsettia's fault.  But face it, no plant is more season-specific...and its season had passed.  Still, I couldn't just let the poor plant die...or could I?

Now it's almost February.  The poinsettia is still on my kitchen table.  A few of its red leaves have turned brown.  Several leaves have shriveled up and fallen off.         I hardly ever bother to water it.  I don't even want to look at it.  Yet it stubbornly refuses to die.

I know, I know...the Internet is full of helpful advice about how to replant a poinsettia.  One site promises that "...with proper care, poinsettias can retain their beauty for weeks...and some varieties will stay attractive for months".

For months??  Do you mean to tell me I may still be looking at this plant on Memorial Day?  That I will be explaining why I have a poinsettia on Labor Day?   (I suppose if it's still alive by Halloween, I can always just say I did my Christmas decorating early).

I've searched the Internet for advice on how to kill a poinsettia, but haven't found anything yet.  Clearly, ignoring a poinsettia for weeks at a time doesn't bother this perky, little plant one bit.  It can withstand even the most hostile environment.

Ok, now I'm feeling even guiltier about my poinsettia.  Guess I'll just have to water it again.

Stupid Pet Pics

Warning:  The following post is likely to make a lot of people very angry - including a lot of friends of mine.  But I'll take that risk...because  I can no longer remain silent on this issue.

Ok, what is it with all those people who post pictures of their pets - instead of themselves - on their Facebook profiles?  Am I the only one who has had it up to here with this practice?

The first time I saw a photo of so-and-so's dog or cat on their profile page,             
I thought it was cute and charmingly original.  But now that almost every other Facebook profile picture is a portrait of a dog, cat  or pot bellied pig, it's completely lost its cute factor.  In fact, it's just downright annoying.  I'm so over it.

Like a lot of people, I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook.  Actually, it's more like a mildly interested-couldn't care less relationship.  At times, I admit I can get caught up in the intersecting orbits of friends, acquaintances and total strangers.  At other times, I'm so bored by the whole endeavor, I rarely even visit the site.  Frankly, I wonder if the fascination of Facebook has run its course and question if it will even be around in a few years. 

But that's a topic for another day...back to those annoying pet pictures.  I think I finally figured out why they bug me so much.  It's not because I don't like animals.  And I certainly don't mind when people post photos of themselves with their animals. 

No, the reason I find the furry profile photos so disconcerting is because they contradict the whole point of Facebook.

Ostensibly, Facebook is about connecting.  But for many of us, it can have just the opposite effect.  A few minutes on the site can make me feel even more disconnected and alienated than ever.  There's the wierdness of "friending" people you don't even know (and would probably never spend any time with even if you did know them).  There's the false intimacy (and intense boredom) of reading  those endless, narcissistic "Dear Diary" entries ("Today, I decided to try herbal tea!").  Plus, the unspoken pressure to constantly write something oh-so-clever or cryptic on your "Wall" only adds to the superficial, distancing effect of it all.  It's a game - fun at times - but it bears very little resemblance to interacting with actual, non-virtual friends.

So when you choose to not even share a picture of yourself - and decide to hide behind a photo of your adorable Golden Lab (or cartoon character clip art, or a stock photo of Clark Gable, or whatever), it  adds yet another layer, feels even more impersonal and just compounds the whole unsettling effect.  It's especially frustrating to finally track down a long-lost  schoolmate or childhood buddy only to find a blurry photo of a Miniature Poodle with Red Eye.

Look, nobody is forcing you to be on Facebook.  But if you're going to be on it, the very least you can do is show your face.

Too self-conscious about sharing your photo?  Fine, then don't go on Facebook.  Feeling ambivalent about Facebook and not sure you really want to participate?  Great - then don't.  Want to show off your adorable kitty?  Then pose with him - or just post Mr. Whisker's photo on one of those Facebook-type sites just for pets (yes, they really exist...how could they not?).

Mr. Whiskers may be darned cute.  But if you're going to bother to be on Facebook, I want to see your face...not your feline's.

There, I've  said it.  Now I'll sit back and watch the fur fly.

Smooth Talkers

They say "actions speak louder than words". 

Unless, that is, you're talking about Customer Service. Today, many companies subscribe to the theory that if you merely use the right words, you can get away with just about anything.  Stupid Customer Service Jargon - the evil cousin of Stupid Corporate Marketingspeak - is everywhere these days.

Case in point: Jamba Juice.  Now, I'm a huge fan of Jamba Juice.  Their all-natural fruit smoothies are so refreshingly delicious, I'm even willing to overlook the cloyingly cute, pun-ridden product names ("Orange A-Peel!"...
"Berry Fulfilling!").

As for their service, well, let's just say it's mixed.  Sometimes, the person who takes my order is incredibly perky and responsive.  Other times, not so much.  Running noisy blenders and slaving over a wheat grass juicer all day is a thankless job.  So once in a while, I've been known to encounter a sullen, passive-aggressive Jamba Juice employee with something of an attitude problem. In other words, the service is about the same as any other franchise that hires young people, pays them the minimum wage and asks them to smile while performing menial tasks they feel are like, soooo beneath them.

I can deal with that.  As long as I get my Orange A-Peel with Energy Boost,
I'm a happy camper. 

But apparently, for the Powers That Be at Jamba Juice, good enough isn't good enough.  This is a company that is obsessed with Customer Service.  Or at least, the concept of it.  They've swallowed  the Customer Service Bullshit Jargon Kool-Aid - and they regurgitate the lingo every chance they get...whether it's on their cheerful, in-store posters or their a tad-too-precious website.

For a company that seems to pride itself on its "all-natural goodness" and worships at the alter of Authenticity, the Jamba Juice crowd spews some of the most artificial Marketing-ese anywhere.

It's all about the customer experience.  As they put it, "Our customers have always inspired our quest for the perfect product and experience."

You see, it's more than a job for these people.  They are on a quest.  I fully expect to see the "Don Quixote Impossibly Raspberry Dream" added to the menu any day.

The minute you hear the words "quest" and "experience",  you can be sure it will be just a matter of time before someone introduces the "P word"...passion.

Yep, here it comes: "We're downright passionate about improving even the little things."

And how do they harness that passion to deliver the perfect experience?  Simple.
Remember that mildly hostile teenager who took my order?  Well, he's not an employee.   He's a "team member".  On the Jamba Juice website, potential new hires are encouraged to "be part of a fresh, fun team that hands out tons of healthy energy...and a smile with every smoothie."  Or maybe you aspire to something bigger?  Like Shift Manager?  In that case, you can be responsible for "execution of brand excellence" (wow, and I thought you just had to be sure there were enough hairnets to go around).

The form letter from the franchise owner that's posted on the bulletin board in my neighborhood Jamba Juice says it all.  This letter masterfully blends every bullshit expression into three, deliciously cliche-ridden paragraphs. 

It starts, naturally, with "passion" and "commitment": "...we are very passionate about ensuring you have a great, consisistent experience each time you visit us.  We are committed to helping new customers through their first Jamba Juice experience." (Who knew you needed that much help ordering a smoothie?).

Then, they mix in a few "intentions":  "The expectatations and intentions we have for ourselves are high."

And, we get those all-important "team members" who are, of course, "empowered to make things right for you."

Next, they add a dollop of New-Agey positive energy:  "We intend for our store to have positive energy, through people, sights, sounds and smells." (A team member really needs to check out the positive energy in the rest room).

The letter closes with the kind of self-important nonsense that could only come from a company that regards mixing fresh fruit, vitamin powder and yogurt in a blender as a higher calling: "If we have made a difference in your life, please let us know."

I'll admit, a good smoothie has occasionally  made a difference in my day.  But I've never known one to be exactly life-changing.

But that doesn't matter -  it's all about talking the talk. 

It's the same way my bank started referring to us as  "guests" instead of "customers".  No point getting all worked up because you're stuck waiting in a long line for a teller.  Customers get mad.  "Guests" get treated royally - and are grateful for it.  Thank you, Citibank!  It's just so darned considerate of you...so civilized.      I can't wait to get invited over to my branch again so I can wait in line some more and maybe steal one of those cute guest soaps.

Sure, great service would be nice.  But if you can't deliver the real thing, don't worry.  Just serve up some feel-good jargon and deliver it with a phony smile.  After all, it's the thought that counts.

Late Breaking Nonsense

I know I've been picking on "Dr. Nancy" a lot lately. When it comes to providing blog material, this show is the gift that keeps on giving.  Although the syndrome that I'm about to describe is hardly unique to "Dr. Nancy" and MSNBC; it's a familiar ailment, common to almost every cable news show.

The other morning, I was watching as Dr. Nancy presided over a very interesting and important debate about whether illegal immigrants would be covered under the proposed health reform plan.  The debate - between two credible experts - was just getting going and I was glued to every word.  We were finally getting some intelligent answers about this controversial subject!  I was about to give
"Dr. Nancy" high marks for tackling this thorny subject and trying to clarify the matter once and for all.

Uh, not so fast.

Suddenly, Dr. Nancy broke in.  "Sorry," she said, "I really hate to do this, but we have to interrupt for some very important breaking news."

I prepared myself for the worst.  Had a new terrorist plot been uncovered?  Did a hurricane wipe out the Eastern coast of Florida?  Perhaps there'd been a sudden upswing in Swine Flu cases?

Not exactly.

At that moment, the cameras cut away to a live picture of several limousines, far off in the distance, pulling up to an unidentified building.  The cameras were so far away, one could only make out a few small, blurry figures slowly getting out of the vehicles.  No one was even remotely recognizable.

The "very important breaking news"?  Apparently, members of the Kennedy family had begun arriving at the service for Eunice Shriver. 

That's all...they were arriving.  That was it.

The cameras lingered awkwardly for several minutes.  They were trained on the scene, but there wasn't anything to see.  

There really wasn't anything to say, either.  The commentator struggled to fill in a few details about what we were observing.  "This is a big family...and they're very close.  I, um, don't think Ted Kennedy will be attending today's service...but I'm not really sure about that..."

It was bad enough that we were intruding on a private, family moment.  But it wasn't even a moment.  It was just a bunch of parked cars that were mostly - and perhaps intentionally - obscured by dense foliage.  Yet this disconcertingly nebulous, non-event was somehow deemed important enough to break away from a legitimate, lively debate about health care.  Did they figure it was worth cutting away on the chance that we might catch a glimpse of Maria and Arnold emerging from one of the limos?  Or maybe we'd see one of the Kennedy clan?  Was that the gamble?

Sorry, but that's not news.  It's voyeurism.  And in this case, it wasn't even effective voyeurism or good tv; it was just an awkward moment in search of a story.  If I want to see somber members of the Kennedy family arriving for the Shriver memorial, I can just open up this week's issue of People magazine.  I'm sure they're already planning a big photo spread...immediately following a story about how the Olsen Twins have triumphed over anorexia.

Who makes these decisions?  I certainly don't blame Dr. Nancy.  Her producers decide when to break away for important, breaking news.  The trouble is that lately, just about everything rates as "breaking news" ("We interrupt our regular scheduled program to bring you this important news story:  the sun came up this morning!").

In the Media's never-ending quest to fill every second with something that will titillate, boost ratings and feed our insatiable appetite for the sensational, they've lost the ability to distinguish between real news and everything else.  Just because they super "Breaking News" in huge, italicized, capital letters across the bottom third of the screen and add some dramatic, whoosh-y sound effects, doesn't mean it's news.  And like that boy who cried wolf one too many times, if they keep whipping us into a frenzy, only to announce nothing, pretty soon we're going to stop paying any attention at all. 

Which brings me to this very important alert for all you cable news producers:
it's time for a lot less hyperbole and a lot more selectivity.  

If you're going to call it "breaking news", it had better be newsworthy.

All the News That's Unfit to Print

Q:  What do the following headlines have in common?

600 Missing After Taiwan Typhoon

Kim Kardashian Goes Blonde

U.S. Targets Afghan Drug Lords

Kate Gosselin Breaks Down

Iraq Suffers Bloodiest Day Since U.S. Pullout

Miley Cyrus Busts Out a Pole Dance for Teen Awards

A:  These were all "Top Stories" on my Comcast home page this week.  And thus, they were all given equal weight and importance. 

On any given day, you can find an equally ludicrous blending of the truly significant and the utterly vapid.

And if that alone doesn't prove that our so-called culture is going to hell in a handbasket, then I'll buy you a new handbasket.

Of course, Comcast pretends to divide the stories into separate "News" and "Entertainment" categories.  It's a nice try  -- but whom do they think they are they kidding?  We all know there is no distinction; the serious and the shallow are now all lumped together into one stinking, simmering morass of news-like substance, spewed out 24/7.

The Internet - and many TV networks - can barely be bothered serving up "real" news stories anymore.  They know Americans are hungry for garbage.  We need our daily, minimum requirement of endlessly regurgitated celebrity bullshit.       Our appetite for trash is seemingly insatiable -- the beast must be fed.  And by golly, The Media isn't going to let us go hungry.

I realize that celebrity gossip has long been a part of the American scene.  But in the early days of Hollywood, there was a clear line between what made it to the front page of a respectable newspaper and what was on the cover of Photoplay.  True, an occasional event -- like the Fatty Arbuckle murder scandal of 1921 -- might rate as a national news story.  And Rudolph Valentino's untimely death at the age of 31 caused mass hysteria and was a major, international news story.

But I don't think you would have ever seen a story about W.C. Fields' drinking problem splashed across the front page for weeks.  Or that one of FDR's
Fireside Chats would be interrupted for an urgent, breaking news story about Loretta Young and Clark Gable's secret love child.

What the hell happened? 

It's easy to blame The Media -- and they deserve plenty of blame for their sleazy, shameless opportunism. They make an absolute fortune sinking to the lowest common denominator.  This is America the Shallow - and shallow sells. If it didn't, all of this crap would disappear faster than Tori Spelling's baby weight.

By now, you're probably thinking I have a keen grasp of the obvious.  What?  America's become a tabloid news-obsessed nation?  We're even more superficial than the suntans on The Real Housewives of New Jersey?  Geez. Tell me something I don't know.

But I guess what also disturbs me about the headlines on my web browser page -- or the so-called "news crawl" across the bottom of the CNN screen -- is that
there's something else going on, as well: cross-promotion.  Nothing is ever what
it seems.  All of those incessant headlines about Jon and Kate are really just ads to help fill the coffers of the TLC franchise and sell more copies of Us.  That's what it's really all about: marketing.  That's what it's always about.  Which is
nothing new.  Except that now, the Internet and the 24/7 cable news cycle have made all that blatant marketing even more ubiquitous, insidious and obnoxious. 

And as long as we've blurred the line between marketing and legitimate news, there's not a chance in hell of stopping the madness.

Bad Medicine, Sickening TV

Recently, I wrote about  Dr. Nancy Snyderman's new morning show on MSNBC, Dr. Nancy.  At that time, I found the mere name of show nauseating. 

Well, I've gotten over that relatively minor problem.  If Dr. Snyderman wants to call herself  "Dr. Nancy", so be it.  I can live with that.

What's harder to swallow is the way this show purports to be about medical issues, when in fact, Dr. Nancy talks about pretty much anything under the sun -- including the most sensational, tabloid stories -- all under the guise of  "health". 
The doctor may be in -- but she's definitely off topic.

Now that I've caught on to this, it's been fun watching how Dr. Nancy manages to twist virtually anything into a "health" story. 

This week, for example, Dr. Nancy looked into the camera with her most serious expression.  "And next",  she teased, "we have a very important story that simply must be discussed."  I braced myself for the latest, scary  statistics on swine flu.     Or maybe TB rates were on the rise?   But no.  Instead, the good doctor launched into a very important story about... how Rhianna and Chris Brown were back together again. Oh, but you see, it wasn't really about them.  After all, this is
Dr. Nancy, not Entertainment Tonite.  So the Rhianna/Chris Brown story  was framed as a very important piece about...the long-term psychological effects suffered by abused women.  Seriously.  It's enough to make you heave.

Not surprisingly, Dr. Nancy devotes a large portion of every show to the most important medical story in America:  Michael Jackson.  It's one thing when she discusses the prescription drug controversy surrounding Jackson's death -- she gets away with it because it comes under the "medical" heading.  But then she seamlessly (and shamelessly) segues into every other Jacko-related tidbit; from who will get custody of the kids to Jackson's financial troubles.

At first, I thought the celebrity stories were simply acting as teasers for the health-related stories (after all, a spoonful of trashiness makes even the driest medical topic go down).  But now, I think it's the other way around;  the celebrity gossip is the story.  Dr. Nancy tries to give the trashy segments an air of respectability by creating earnest-sounding, if somewhat tenuous, links to serious medical topics.  The show is hosted by a physician -- but that's almost irrelevant.  You might as well put a lab coat on Ryan Seacrest and give him this gig.

It's too bad.  I actually enjoy hearing Dr. Snyderman's perspective on  health care reform and her advice about legitimate medical concerns.  But I guess the producers -- and the network -- want to make sure we get our daily dose of sleazy, tabloid trash (as if we could possibly avoid it).  So they keep force-feeding us this pablum, through a steady, round-the-clock drip.   And instead of getting an hour of useful medical information, we get something closer to Access Hollywood meets Marcus Welby, M.D. 

In the end, Dr. Nancy is just the latest "entertainment" show parading as a "news" show.  The line between the two is beyond blurry -- it's practically non-existent. 
The same as virtually everything else in our hopelessly vapid, tabloid-obsessed, utterly ridiculous culture.

And as long as these shows continue to get ratings, there's no cure in sight.

Prime Time for "Client-9"

It's only been a little over a year since the infamous Eliot Spitzer prostitution scandal.  After the former NewYork Governor resigned in disgrace, he disappeared completely from public view. 

What do you suppose he was doing during this time of shame and repentance?  Wrestling with his demons?  Going to marriage counseling?  Getting treatment for sex addiction?  Finding God?   Reallocating his 401K?   Trying to wangle an invite to "C Street"?

Perhaps.  But clearly, was he was also busy strategizing with his PR consultant.  Indeed, it appears the man who will forever be known for a certain, um, act, is ready for his Second Act. 

Yesterday morning, I turned on MSNBC and nearly choked on my Cheerios; there was Eliot Spitzer, of all people, co-hosting the program with Carlos Watson.      The former Governor stood there, cheerfully fielding questions on a multitude of topics, from health care to the Sotomayor hearings.    

I know Americans have  short attention spans.  But are we really expected to look at Eliot Spitzer and think of him as just another political pundit?

Apparently, yes.  The Rehabilitation and Resurrection of Eliot Spitzer has officially begun.  I'm not sure what the ultimate goal is; will he run for office again?  Host his own TV show?  Who knows.  But he's baaack.

Yesterday's show was not without its delightfully awkward moments.  At one point, the conversation veered to a lighthearted discussion of how Obama is setting a new kind of example for African-American men, especially in regard to marriage and family life.  While MSNBC pop culture analyst, Toure, gushed about how Barack took Michelle out for a glamorous "date night" in Manhattan - and, ha ha, didn't that set the bar higher for all us regular, married guys? - the former Governor silently squirmed, with a nervous smile plastered across his face and a bit too much shine on his broad, well-pancaked forehead.

I'll bet you anything he's planning a "date night" with the missus right now.

Crap: Why Vague, Single Syllable Book Titles Are All the Rage

Peruse the bestseller shelf in any airport bookstore and you'll notice a trend. 
I call it Monosyllabic Title Syndrome. 

I think the trend may have started with Malcolm Gladwell's second book, Blink. Right after that one hit the shelves - and sold like hotcakes - everyone wanted in on the act.  So now, our nation's bookstore shelves are crammed with punchy, single syllable titles like Sway, Free, Dread and Rigged. 

Cute and catchy as these cryptic titles may be, they do require some 'splainin'.  Quite a bit of it, in fact.  So every monosyllabic title is immediately followed by a really long, convoluted subtitle.  To wit:

Blink:  The Power of Thinking Without Thinking
Sway:  The Irresistible Pull of Irrational Behavior
Free:  The Future of a Radical Price (huh?)
Dread:  How Fear and Fantasy Have Fueled Epidemics from the Black Death to the Avian Flu
Rigged:  The True Story of an Ivy League Kid Who Changed the World of Oil, from Wall Street to Dubai

The latest book by political pundit Dick Morris features the Mother of All Subheads:
Fleeced: How Barack Obama, Media Mockery of Terrorist Threats, Liberals Who Want to Kill Talk Radio, the Self-Serving Congress, Companies That Help Iran and Washington Lobbyists for Foreign Governments are Scamming Us...And What to Do About It.

(Personally, I would have titled this Sleaze: How an Opportunistic, Toe-Sucking Political Hack Shamelessly Exploited America's Socialist Fears and Tried to Destroy the Obama Administration Before They'd Even Been in Office for Barely Five Minutes with Two Hastily Published Propagandist Books Sporting Ridiculously Long Titles).

Somewhere along the line, it seems publishers decided that the secret to a best-selling book was a one word - and preferably one syllable - title.  After all, Americans are lazy, not terribly literate and pressed for time.  We like our literature lite and our titles bite-sized.  Why tax our pea brains with all those pesky, extra syllables?

A short, catchy title can turn virtually any subject matter into an irresistible read.  The next time I'm in Border's, I fully expect to see:

Fridge:  How Coolants and Condensers Transformed Food Preservation in        America

Steep: The Future of Tea in a Coffee-Addicted Society

Frizz:  How Bad Hair Products Have Failed American Women

Mute:  Why the Remote Control Matters More Than Ever in an Increasingly Loud, Obnoxious World

Grate: The Irresistible Lure of Parmesan Cheese

Drill:  The Shocking, Untold Story of Dentistry

Of course, the monosyllabic trend is not limited to books.  TV producers have also jumped on the bandwagon, giving us Weeds, Lost, Monk, Scrubs, Bones, Wrecked, Stoked and HBO's latest, Hung. 
The formula for success appears to be:  Quirky Character + Edgy, Slightly Outrageous Subject Matter + One Syllable Title = Mega Hit.

By today's rules, Jane Austen would have written Pride minus the Prejudice.  There would be no Catcher in the Rye... only Rye.  Tolstoy's publisher would have made him choose between either War OR Peace ("Leo, baby, trust me on this...it sounds edgy...it's fresh...and it will climb to the top of  Amazon's Bestseller List in a week...").  And I hate to even think what would have happened to Moby Dick.

Syllables.  They're just like, so Twentieth Century.