Reality intrudes.
But reality also envelops us, and where I ‘should be living my life’, as Sr. Mary Gump told 9 year-old me, adding a warning about “being prepared for the future”, seconded by my parents – along with a spanking, which seemed to follow any reported interaction with ‘the nuns’.
But if reality is so great, why do we spend so much time trying to escape it?
There are waking dreams: Everyone has them, starring a reality that’s different and better than our current state, if only…
And there are sleep dreams, which can be weirdly different, nightmares non-remembered if you’re lucky, and the teenage variety – which require clean up on aisle 7 – definitely best not talked about.
So many end-runs around reality:
Augmented reality combining digital information with the user’s environment in real time, and like so much technology, I’d enjoy it if I knew what the hell it was.
Virtual reality creating a totally artificial environment, but sounding like getting ‘catfished’ on a dating site or an email from a Nigerian prince, plus I look terrible with ‘headset hair’.
Movies offer elegant escapism, but if it’s a chance to ‘escape from reality’, why is it better if they’re “based on a true story”?
Reality television not feeling real at all, featuring participants/actors who behave oddly enough to make us feel better about ourselves.
A serious gender abyss exists over reality television: Men preferring shows that involve guns, Russian Ballet exposes, or spitting/crotch grabs, women leaning toward shows like Wall Street Week or the Bachelor(ette).
But both agreeing on dramas like ‘Dateline’, murder the ultimate “Glad that wasn’t me” experience, with its Keith Morrison creepiness – AI now offering “Keith-narrated” event recreations – including stirring descriptions of couple’s wedding nights.
My Captor watches the Bachelor(ette) with suspended disbelief, understanding that the final product is highly edited, conforming to a now tired formula:
S(he) isn’t here for the ‘right reason’: Just trying to become an ‘influencer’, a hand model, or the next Bachelor(ette).
Unfortunately, most elected officials fitting that general description…
The ratted out ‘troublemaking’ housemate – making both the rat and rattee look petty – microaggressions now punishable with macroaggressions.
The ‘crazy one’, made even crazier by selective editing – and the open bar -but the star forced to keep them for at least 6 weeks and one ambulance visit.
But there are ways to add ‘real’:
Exotic departures – The rejected vanishing through a trap door or eaten by wolves, as opposed to “saying your goodbyes” and being walked to the car.
Selective ‘Weaponizing’ – Arming random contestants – – Sure you don’t want to give me that rose? Do you feel lucky, darling?
The ‘Thresher’ – exiled to work on a wheat farm in Kansas.
Really though, it’s not good when reality TV gets too real.
The Golden Bachelor now featuring a widowed 72 year old ‘looking for love’, with a group of similarly aged women, most also widowed.
Fortunately, the ‘organ recitals’ have been edited out, to be woven together as a Netflix medical mini-series, but the very palpable desperation left in.
Virtually every date featuring the women pleading “This is my last chance at love! Pick me or I die alone!”
Much like the last lifeboat departing the Titanic.
I’ll be impressed if he can handle the Fantasy Suite 3 nights in a row…
But if he’s smart, he’ll pick his personal algorithm: Who or what knows you better?
It knows your favorite music, food, what you’re shopping for…
Even the version of reality you’d prefer.
And just like a wife, solving problems you didn’t even know you had.
TO ENHANCE YOUR ENJOYMENT OF THIS POST, PAIR IT WITH THE FOLLOWING SONGS:
“Illegal Smile” by John Prine is on ‘escaping reality’ point.
But today: If you don’t know The Smiths, it’s a great day to fix that. Morrissey and Johnny Marr were an amazing song writing duo, Marr’s music not always matching Morrissey’s downbeat lyrics (e.g. “When I’m lying in bed I think about life and I think about death, and neither of them appeals to me”) but it always worked. Mike Joyce’s drum solo at the beginning of The Queen is Dead is to be heard on repeat. Repeat. Repeat. You get the point…
Last Night I Dreamt The Smiths
Last night I dreamt
That somebody loved me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm
Last night I felt
Real arms around me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm
So, tell me how long
Before the last one?
And tell me how long
Before the right one?
The story is old, I know
But it goes on
The story is old, I know
But it goes on
2 in one week, I’m impressed