I've been having withdrawal symptoms since Big Brother ended. I miss
the drama and controversy and yes, I clearly have no life.
It's funny how it's become such a seasonal thing - BB goes from Autumn
to Winter, Idol then picks up and takes us through to Spring. It's
become a yearly ritual.
So I'm looking forward to Australian Idol starting on Sunday.
How I love being an armchair critic.
2 comments:
We have a couple of weeks off before Fall session starts, and even though I do have a lot of stuff to do on the grant I work on, I have been glued to the Discovery Channel watching Shark Week. The sad thing is, I've already seen half of these shows, but I'm still here, wasting my time, watching them anyway.
OMG, have I become dull! =o(
Tube of glue. I missed BB this year, primarily because it was garbage. Each season, they try to make it nastier and nastier... I, personally, don't want to watch that. Isn't there enough interpersonal bullshit in the real world? It's different with flicks and movies and films and cinema; they're approximations of reality with a message, a purpose, a reason... a point (or try to have), but offering 10+ hours of bitchery a week as a form of legitimate entertainment is... well... transparent. WHO ARE THEY FOOLING? At least the first few seasons of BB were watchable - it was a genuine, large scale, interactive social experiment. This year was a home-grown, unscripted, 24-hour version of Jerry Springer - complete with cµntish host. Sorry, Gretel Killeen bothers me more and more each year.
Watching a bunch of 20-somethings whoring themselves to the nearest camera is a smidge too Paris Hilton for my sensitivities. And, like Paris Hilton, some of these fµcks seem to score the wealth and admiration of a blind, celebrity-obsessed, indoctrinated generation of iPodders and MySpacers ten years our junior: an overstimulated, undereducated youth who (mis)take Ms Hilton - famous because she's famous because she's famous - for a "role model" and grow up to believe that puppy dogs are accessories to be colour-coordinated with neon-pink houndstooth miniskirts stored in Louis Vuitton mini-carrybags whilst they're shopping for gourmet coconut slice and native Australian knick-knackery down at the Rocks Market on a Saturday.
And Australian Idol! Don't even start me. Suffice it to say, this is not the USA (thank fµck); we do not have the population to sustain multiple successive seasons of Australian Idol without presenting an overwhelming selection of slightly talented Saturday-night-RSL-karaoke-competition-types. Or worse; Guy Sebastian-ish "artists" who do everything right and new and different during the competition and then proceed to vomit forth a soul-crushing range of the same amputated-rhythm, über-bling, "poverty-ghetto-oppression", baby-daddy generica currently clogging up air- and web-radio stations like a flushed wad of toilet paper after a four-way wankfest.
Jeeeeeez.
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