Dazed & Confused: A critical look at our pop life

We are living in a time of nightmares made real, where reality and non-reality are bending in the minds of the weak, creating a craven illusion in their twisted psyches. I am, of course, talking about reality TV.

Specifically, I’m talking about the fact that a greater and greater portion of America is convinced that their lives should be filmed. Right. Fucking. Now.

Last week brought on one of the more crass fame binges in recent memory, when the “Balloon Boy” incident propelled a Colorado family first into national stardom and then national ridicule. I’m not sure where I read this idea first, but its perception is spot on: The only difference between what happened last Thursday and a normal reality show is that the journalists weren’t in on the joke. That’s really it.

I mean, the family literally had the entire country and media system on the edge of their seats, waiting to see what might happen. They were so desperate for fame that they made up an elaborate scheme to, in essence, create their own television show. It was a manipulation of “real” events for the benefit of a national audience.
Now, there’s no question that the Heene family is full of idiots, but they’re really more a symptom of the problem than the problem itself.

What modern technology has wrought is not just useful advancement. It has given us too many tools to engage our inner narcissists. Because, even if we can’t get onto a TV show—which is increasingly easy to do—we can put videos of ourselves up on YouTube. Technology has given us the illusion that we are more important than we are, and people are starting to act accordingly.

Scarier still is the fact that TV is now explicitly trying to form the identity of its viewers.

For instance, have you seen the new Comedy Central series Secret Girlfriend? It’s a show shot in a first-person format, and it marks an absolute low point in 21st century culture.

The setup is something like this: You (the viewer) are friends with two fat slobs. Most of your time is spent staring at the body parts of attractive women. For some inexplicable reason, all the women in town are in love with you, even though you don’t speak or even appear to exist. You are a misogynistic ghost in the machine. And you don’t have any choice in the matter.

While I’ve only seen one episode of Secret Girlfriend, it’s hard to imagine this intense fantasy is in any way healthy. It’s a lot like point-of-view porn, but instead of simply mimicking sex acts, it mimics the day-to-day actions of a life.

For a generation raised on first-person video games, it might be that this show makes far too much sense, but even just based on craft and narrative, this show is nigh unwatchable. First-person TV or film just doesn’t work.
Maybe now that “real” people have supplanted fictional people on TV, fictional lives will replace real ones.

We’re fast approaching the break-even point. The Heene family lost a grip on who they are based on the nectar of fame. They became fictional.

As we continue to stir the techno-sludge that is our modern lives, let us not forget: We are who we are, and we’re not fucking famous.