Monday, February 19, 2007
Top conspiracy suicide
Well I don’t watch too much TV so it was kind of strange last night to watch almost 3 hours (the programmes lasted longer than that but 3 hours is my current attention span maxed out) of the stuff and now write about it.
Firstly Top Gear, a bizarre, funny exercise in mad superlatives, gloating and politically incorrect pantomime humour (as the audience plays along nicely). I like cars but this programme is like a silly exaggeration of anything to do with motoring and statistics and figures and jargon. If Top Gear was a rock band it’d be Spinal Tap.
Then a show documenting various shades of 9/11 conspiracy theories. At first I was intrigued at the amount of CT activity on the go and the amount of money and commercialism that backs it up. Sadly not much of it stacks up to anything and of course it’s difficult for Middle America to do anything without relying upon tele-evangelist rhetoric and posturing or some Wayne’s World suburban basement to carry the message forth. “4000 Jews stayed home on 9/11 because MOSAD told them to?” I don’t buy that any more than the theory that it wasn’t an airliner that hit the Pentagon; it was a pilot less drone. As for the Twin Towers being demolished by explosive charges...c’mon. If this show was a rock band it’d be Kiss.
Finally a documentary about Kurt Cobain’s last (miserable) days before being found dead in his greenhouse by an electrical contractor. A bleak, rainy Washington State didn’t look too attractive but the truth doesn’t matter now as young Kurt’s home life and lifestyle is already romanticized and distorted beyond belief, in 13 short years or so. A selection of overweight, podgy, unhealthy looking ex-friends were lined up to tell their tales about the boy wonder, I’m sure they regularly dine out on the strained associations and tall tales they have now spun into some new form of reality. Nothing distorts the memory like empty ambition and a need to impress – particularly now that this wafer thin slice of history can be retold any way you damn well like. In the end I felt truly sorry for Cobain, never quite crawling out of his own wreckage, a butterfly killed on a wheel and a guy with a real raw talent well wasted in a few years. I also felt sorry for his grandfather who seemed a simple enough guy, still living in a brown veneered trailer in Kurt’s home town of Aberdeen. It looked like none of the Nirvana millions had trickled down his way, though you can never tell. I’m bound to empathize with grandparents these days any how, so I don’t need any excuses. If this was a rock band (and it was) it’d be the Jimi Hendrix Experience.