A radiant sun bounced light off the flora as I set out to do what scribes have done since the days of Pliny the Elder. Soak in a Jacuzzi® bath as great comedy plays on stage while re-reading words I chiseled this week. It’s how jocular jocks, you know lyrical loopers, up their game.
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Yuck. So long. So heavy. Useless ideas. Disconnected thoughts. Keytaps to nowhere. Split infinitives. Crickey! I was that Gisborne guy who helped build the first useless transatlantic telegraph cable that didn’t connect the UK to North America. Sent keytaps to nowhere. And, ultimately, split. 2700 miles and 2,751,100 lbs. of boredom.
Stories about old media and old media tech are totes boring. Today won’t be that day. News. Blah. Ad tech. Yawn. Algorithms. Bite me. Media is a big tent. Filled with spectacle and meant to entertain.
To get in the right mood, I fired up Netflix and searched for, “Anything funny.” I got block after block of nothing. Do they even make funny any more? Everything is so homogenized. Apparently, we can’t laugh because that might trigger someone.
Happily, I found this story by Tara Henley. She hates an unfunny world too, “Most of all, though, I do not want to live in a world without laughter.” I’ve never recommended a Substack before. I’m recommending hers. Chock full of bite and wit. I needed that to get rolling.
I’m in my 50s. People around my age talk about three things when they get together: The “R” word, getting up at night to pee, and lamenting where did all the funny stuff go? So far, I’ve covered two of three.
The generation before me got Archie Bunker. Look, I’m not here to condone racism. But damn, that dude be funny. My generation got Al Bundy. Look, I’m not here to say that the only funny people are crotchety middle-aged, blue-collar white guys. I’m just saying How I Met Your Dad… not funny. The new Fresh Prince show… not funny. Nothing today is funny. It’s — to use Tara’s words, smug and sanctimonious.
Elwood Blues droling out, “It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark... and we're wearing sunglasses.” And his brother, Jake: responding with, “Hit it.” Funny.
“It’s 106 miles to the metaverse, we have a fully charged electric vehicle, a half-charged vape stick, we’re in dark mode, and we’re wearing VR goggles… Hit it.” As a back-and-forth between two androgenous characters drawn by an AI, not funny.
I have an idea for a TV show. Based loosely on the premise of We Bought a Zoo. The exceedingly tiresome snorefest starring Matt Damon and Scarlett Johansson as a couple who buys a broken-down zoo and speaks words written by Cameron Crowe. I was on an airplane for twelve hours in the days where the whole cabin got one movie and I still couldn’t watch it.
But my idea is good. It borrows from Ed. An also tiresome show listed as a comedy produced by David Letterman’s Worldwide Pants that produced no laughs.
Letterman. The guy who, in his hay day, would summon the window washer to sit aside his desk. Dude’s name was always something unpronounceable and the poor dude could barely speak the language. Still, he was a guest on a major network TV show. This was the highlight of his life. Dave snarking through his tooth gap would ask Zoltar, “What’s it like to wash windows 47 floors above Manhattan?” Zoltar would respond, “Nice.” Dave’s words would ring in Midwest shucksy twang above the flexed pop of the index card he’d be holding. Zoltar answer would have an indistinguishable old-world accent. The audience would break out in new yawk guffaws at the unexpected absurdity. After that segment, Letterman would don a suit of Alka Seltzer and be plopped into a pool of water to start the fizzing. Then, race some studio clerk down the hall in swivel chairs using fire extinguishers as propellant. What happened to the world?
So, anyway, my show.
We’re in Green Bay. Not so far into the future. The last dude with a boxy, unflat TV is watching America’s last UHF station. Elwood (Woody) Pliny sees what will be their last ad. A betting app for Wisconsinites to plonk down money on events at Cheddar-Brat State Fair. As the ad ends and the last moments of the final episode of Green Acres start to run, the station’s signal dies. An abrupt and sad way to end an era.
Just then, Woody’s phone pings. He won $100 bucks for the $3 he laid out on the Glazy Boy to win the Golden Spork (Sporkie). In hindsight it was obvious. How can you beat cheese, brined slow-smoked pork loin, raspberry mustard, and pickled jalapeños smooshed between two glazed donuts? The people at the Miller Lite Sports Bar & Grill were so proud. All real.
In that moment, Woody realizes, this is America. He wants… no… WE all want real stuff, fat, cheese curds, our world to drip with things that require people to push us onto planes on wheelchairs and why casinos in Vegas need forty thousand square nautical yards of parking for reinforced electric scooters.
Instead of buying a new TV that streams unfunny new stuff, Woody drives the half mile to the now defunct station and buys it for his hundred bucks.
His idea is simple. Invite people to make shows. Funny shows. Stupid shows. Shows that large unfunny media companies wouldn’t run because focus groups and demographics and standard deviations and brand safety commissions say won’t play in Peoria.
And, here’s the funny thing. Woody’s neighbors produced stuff that Woody’s other neighbors found funny. And, that got people from other areas to make shows that found an even wider audience. It didn’t take long for people to come from everywhere. They came to Green Bay for reasons they couldn’t even fathom. They turned up on Woody’s driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it.
Every week, we’d see strange people at an oddball station airing stupid stuff.
Unfiltered. Funny. Viral. No apps. No algorithms.
Just needs a name:
Good Woody | Dead Air | WRST In Green Bay ?
DM me with suggestions. I may work this into something unfunny I can pitch to a network. :-)