In the beginning, there was no television. I know this because I saw it on the History channel. Back then, hunting was not only man’s primary means of obtaining meat, but also a major source of artistic inspiration. At night early man slept, club in hand, dreaming of hunts to come—but not until he’d carved vivid accounts of that day’s exploits into the walls of his cave. This hobby effectively got him out of having to wash the dishes (Damn it, Rhonda, I’m busy! When’s the last time you drew me slaying a mammoth around here anyway?”), and would someday provide him with countless hours of diversion when he found himself trapped in the cave due to a meteor shower or the ice age.
Man eventually moved from the cave to a loft in the artsy district, but although he and his descendants were evolving, plot lines seldom ventured beyond the realm of familiar everyday themes. Greek tragedies, for instance were simply reenactments of tragic events in Greek history. The Roman’s idea of relaxation after a long day at the massacre was watching gladiators hack it up in the arena. It was not until Shakespeare started writing plays in which Italians spoke perfect English that the audience was required to suspend disbelief for a minute, but even then, he still threw in enough fairies and Jewish stereotypes to make his tales relatable to all.
Opera contributed by introducing characters who lived in a perpetual state of extreme song, their subsequent tragic deaths being the plot’s only link to the rational. Ballet pitched in, too, nudging the door of man’s imagination open yet wider each time a ballerina sprung across the stage in impossibly tight pants.
By the early 20th century, however, most people couldn’t afford to go to live shows thanks to economic constraints, flu epidemics and world war. Understandably, this period is known as the Great Depression. Fortunately, radio momentarily saved the day, allowing listeners to enjoy thrilling crime stories from the safety of their own homes, without even having to read.
But the grand prize, of course, went to television. Thanks to TV, our minds were finally free to prance through the worlds of heroes and villains, penetrate deep space or chuckle at talking animals at the click of a button. We had finally achieved complete detachment from reality, no conscious thought or cruelty to mammoths required. No longer was art merely imitating life; it was instead dictating it. Naturally, it was just a matter of time before someone fingered TV for the decline of our civilization.
Realizing we had created a monster that had to be controlled, a strategy was devised by which real people dealing with real moral, real personal and real serious issues were sent behind hostile lenses to infiltrate the world of television, just as it had infiltrated ours.
Unfortunately, the codename of the operation—Reality TV—blew its own cover, and television promptly resolved to exact its revenge. It didn’t take a lot. All TV had to do was turn our own weapon against us, sit back and watch what happened. More unfortunately, we still haven’t caught on that TV has caught on, although the fact that many of its most rightfully defunct former stars are once again being regurgitated onto our TV screens via the reality show ticket should be a clue.
And so here we are, trapped in a Dog Eat Dog, Surreal Life with Jon and Kate, unaware of The Mole in The Real World, engaged in a less than Amazing Race with The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and their Big Brother, Real TV, to see who will be The Biggest Loser or at least America’s Next Top Model. There can be only one Survivor.
As for me, I’m gonna wash the dishes, or maybe draw a mammoth.