Television is ubiquitous. We all know this, deep in our souls. It comes in such staggering volume, so utterly unextraordinary, so devoid of character. It's so ubiquitous that anything interesting that does come out simply disappears beneath the mighty bell-curve of juggernaut mediocrity. How many sitcoms have come and gone over the years? Like that warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, boxes stacked to the sky filled with VHS tape, filled to bursting with half-hour pilots about befuddled dad, can-do mom, smartass teenaged kid, precocious prepubescent kid. Or, if you prefer, Cheers in a police station. Cheers in a courtroom. Cheers in a brothel. Where the hell is John Laroquette these days, anyway? Do all these guys just go off and own restaurants when they can't get acting work any more? Or maybe they just run the game show circuit. Remember when "Roz" from Night Court had her own talk show? She made Patrick Stewart shoot baskets. And what's more, he could do it. Now there's a Renaissance man. When I get old, I want to be Patrick Stewart. And I'm sure he'd be overjoyed to hear that, especially the "old" part.
But here's the thing. You read what passes for trades on the supermarket shelves. You know you have. Come on. I've done it, and therefore you must have too, because I sure as hell am not going through this alone. I'll admit I'm one of those reprehensible souls who claims never to watch television, but somehow I know everything about it. I don't know why this is. Some massive junk-culture reservoir in my brain that can't remember the date of the Peace of Westphalia, but remembers everything about the opening credits of Quincy.
But here's the thing (he says again). As the lines between television and movies grow blurrier, God help us all, more and more mediocre TV celebrities make their way to the silver screen, which is quickly tarnishing to wrought brass under the onslaught of more wacky-loser David Schwimmer movies. David Schwimmer, biscuit-headed Perseus of crap. And how do they bill these smarmy yuk-fests, these oddball comedies so mind-blowingly unfunny that soon we'll have laugh tracks in Cinemascope just so we can know when we're amused? "Starring TV's David Schwimmer!" or, "With TV's Jenna Elfman!"
Jenna Elfman. Don't get me started. On second thought, do. It's bad enough I have to endure her squinty, cherubic puss every time I happen to flip by ABC and see her rotoscoped on the motherfucking Statue of Liberty. It's bad enough that I have to (notice I use the phrase have to, because my free will is sapped when the magic box is on, friends and neighbors, it's the Frankenstein broadcast radio control!) see Alan Rachins laid low, veteran star of Joe Don Baker's Mitchell and flatulent, fainting associate and sexual miscreant of LA Law, prancing about with a hair-extension ponytail and milking the forgetfulness joke over and over again. These are high enough prices to pay for some good, old-fashion alpha-state entertainment, but then I have to hear that fucking phrase over and over again, "TV's Jenna Elfman."
What the hell does that mean? Is television a sentient being? Does it own Jenna Elfman in body, or soul? It's not "ABC's Jenna Elfman," maybe because single-network indentured servitude is reserved for those B-list character actors whose last job was a guest spot on Airwolf. We own you, Borgnine! Don't even try going over to cameo on Suddenly Susan, you grizzled old tosspot, or you'll be taking a dirt nap.
TV's Jenna Elfman. TV's anybody. It's a horror to the ear. If God Himself pre-empted the 700 Club to give us the cosmic lowdown on just who's getting saved, his next appearance at Planet Hollywood would be bylined in EW as "TV's God was on hand to donate Hermann Goering's six-string to Stallone's collection." Then off goes God to sign on for a cameo in the next Bill and Ted remake starring Pauly Shore and Carrot Top.
TV devours all.