ON MANOR'S MIND      OMM 05-07

(Author's note:  Be sure to check out the latest twist from the mind of Manor, S.N.A.P.S. Of The Month.)

Though what's to follow isn't quite as hysterically hypocritical as MTV producing a special about banned videos when they themselves were the party guilty of said censorship (covered in a prior O-M-M), sister station VH-1 apparently adopted the same "Since we rarely ever actually play music, let's instead turn our hard-boiled investigative team loose to tape a one-hour program to be repeated 437 times" format.

The result was a gasp-inducing expose on a subject of vital importance to us all--the behind-the-scenes machinations of "reality" TV.  You will no doubt share my shock to learn--and I hope you are sitting down for this--some of the goings-on in these fascinating character studies are staged!  

I know what you're thinking:  "But TV has always been honest to us before."  Sorry, but, yes, it's true, some programs passed off as "real" are in fact just dramatizations.  (Except pro wrestling, of course.)  And one cited offender is entitled The Surreal Life, produced by and broadcast on VH-1.

That's right, THE SAME PEOPLE AIRING THIS TSK-TSKING EXPOSE!

Okay, it would have been bogus if they had excluded their own productions.  And as such, no doubt some deep thinkers award VH-1 props for their frankness.  Let me see if I've got this straight:  we're heaping praise upon people for being honest about their dishonesty?!?  What's next, thanking burglars for stimulating the economy?  What the hell, while we were at it, why didn't we present Saddam with a certificate lauding all he's done to eliminate overpopulation among the Kurds?

Suck-up-to-the-stars-TV exists all around the dial.  One classic program endeavored to inform the unwashed masses of the biggest "Moments In Entertainment" history--history apparently being defined as "anything we have a minute of color footage on."

Yep, pish-posh to such trivialities as the debut of Mac Beth at Shakesbeer's theater on the Avon or the very first public movie screening.  What the hey, the nitwits who sit enthralled through this telenonsense probably think the motion picture was invented by "some dudes called the Warner Brothers."  No sense in confusing the dullards with events that don't kiss the coolies of potential sponsors, right?

So what did they air?  Serving up the requisite butt-smooch to blind-barber patron Mike Myers, a couple of minutes were devoted to the Austin Powers character.  Fantastic--not only have they redefined "history," but now a "moment" is NOT a specific point in time!!!  And of all the people they chose with whom to pull this idiocy, they selected one who's not even a real person!!!

A super-sized "Shame On You" for involving oneself in the jive genre goes out to Dave Navarro, apparently on a crusade to become known as the man who put the git in guitarist.  As if participating in a Following Newlyweds Around With Cameras series (just like cutting-edge Jessica Simpson) and Celebrity Poker TV tourneys weren't enough to secure a nomination, Domesticated Dave was also among the catty commentators on The 100 Greatest Red Carpet Moments.  So, yes, a guy with the dopey black nail polish that hasn't looked flashy or daring on anyone since Lou Reed in '76 sat there passing judgment on other people's appearance.

One might have expected that sort of behavior from an American Idol also-ran, but Dave Navarro?  Egads, David, do you no longer value at least a little bit of the cred you so meticulously amassed?    

Navarro knows "pose"

What they need to do now is produce a 50 Greatest Media Whores program to complete the circle:  Run excerpts of the "wits" making their cutesy remarks on critique shows, then ridicule those clips.

"You see, Rachel, Lara Flynn Boyle can regain a few pounds and be ravishing, but you'll always be a Schnauzer."  "It goes like this, Ian-Michael Black:  You're mocking Devo, yet they're remembered 25 years past their heyday, but no one is going to remember you 25 minutes from now."

Now, that's a program that would be worth repeating 437 times!

When it comes right down to it, people are so shallow.  Fox News even produced a special on the subject, hosted by no-nonsense journalist Greta Van Sustren.  But I didn't watch it, because she's too ugly.

Ready for my close-up   Even from the perspective of someone who generally laughs at the suffering of others, there's no question the Virginia Tech campus was the site of a tragedy of immense proportion.

Upon first hearing the details on the news, like most I was a combination of horrified and outraged.  Damn it, one should never EVER turn the gun on oneself after a refreshing homicide binge.  

You wade through all that trouble to secure weapons, randomly mow down a horde of total strangers, avoid getting your own ass killed in the process, have every media outlet in the country making you priority number one...and you go and put a round in your skull?  What are you, some kind of a nut?!?

The whole murder-suicide combo is such a waste.  You miss out on:  seeing your face on the cover of every single newspaper and the lead in every newscast in America;  former neighbors you never even met explaining how you were "a quiet kid and kind of a loner"; the value of your high school yearbook skyrocketing on eBay due solely to your presence in it; suggesting which noted actor should play you in the made-for-television movie; and, most of all, having the attention of the entire hemisphere and a forum for saying whatever you want.  

Look, everybody's got the opportunity to kill him- or herself.  In point of fact, it's ridiculously common.  But how many folks get the chance to say ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING THEY WANT and have a half-billion people analyze every syllable?  Go on a long rant about the Trilateral Commission or yell "Tony Stewart is number one in NASCAR, baby!"--whatever you feel like getting off your chest will be on the minds of the masses...at least until the next big to-do comes along and you are kicked to the curb.

But, don't despair, in a few months, you'll have the equivalent of the big comeback tour, an op to prop yourself in front of microphones for multiple hours a day, weeks on end, following the time-honored tradition of bounce-passing the blame for all your actions on someone or something else.  It's known as your court trial.  

You realize, of course, there's no way you're going to actually win the case, right?  May as well put on a memorable farewell performance before you get shipped off to prison and shanked in the laundry room.  (Hey, you wanted to die anyway.)  So, let's get ready to grumbllllllllllllllllllllle!

A suggestion to readers who may themselves be facing a high-profile legal hearing:  Adorn your bedroom with posters from Amadeus and those plaster busts of Beethoven, Mozart and that lot, then blame your entire violence spree on classical music.

Okay, perhaps the only Bach you are familiar with is the chick who originally played "Daisy" on The Dukes Of Hazzard.  And maybe you think "pianissimo" is the Italian word for male genitalia.  But isn't it about time a music style other than hip-hop or heavy metal unfairly took the heat for a perp's reckless, irresponsible behavior?

Roll over on Beethoven!

At the very least, showing up in court wearing a "Rachmaninoff Rools!" sweatshirt and playing air cello while pretending to listen to Brahms on your iPod guarantees a bare minimum of 60 seconds of face time on Inside Edition.  Can that goody-two-shoes boyhood neighbor (to whom you were constantly negatively compared) make such a claim?  Hell, no!  And, fellas, everyone knows it's the famous criminals who get the hottest insane girls to write them.

Another cool benefit of using classical music as a scapegoat comes immediately after the testimony.  That's when every self-righteous busy-body who used previous trials to "prove" Tupac, Dokken and their peers need to be banished from existence will be wide open for the smart-ass segment of the press (guess who) to mercilessly grill the snob mob about what they are doing to ban classical music from school libraries, break up the dangerous Boston Pops Orchestra, and so on.

You KNOW they're going to do absolutely nothing of that sort.  Still, it's always great fun to break a fraud's stones, especially the fire-and-brimstone types who suddenly soften their stance once the shoe is on the other hoof.

On that note, I'll leave you with a rib-tickler sure to annoy classical music's elitist fans.  Ask one, "Did you ever hear the first draft of Beethoven's final concerto?"; and when the mark nods a "no," fire back with "Well, neither did he!"

Hubba Hubba Honeys   As an outsider, you may be thinking, "Stately Wayne Manor is professional wrestling's undisputed King Of Columnists, so of course he has a bias towards the girls in the sport"--and you'd be right.

And you'd be wrong.

Naturally, I consider my fellow members of the stretchin' profession to be above all others, for the simple fact we obviously are.  If you actually had the good taste to read my rassling writing, however, you would be well aware I believe three-quarters of the broads in the biz today have no business lacing up the boots and calling themselves wrestlers.

Two-faced turncoat Stacey Kiebler of Dancing With The Stars fame used the "WWE wrestler" billing as a gimmick, but it was a mighty misnomer.  And the wenches who did full Playboy pictorials over the past several years have generally been immense-implant victims whose in-ring performances suggested they didn't know a Boston crab from a Boston Market, a suplex from a soup spoon, a...well, you get the idea.

Make no mistake, I don't hate wrestling women.  In fact, I try wrestling women as often as possible.  <rim shot>

But, cereal, folks, the key word here is "wrestling"--and while I'm wildly enthusiastic about sexy strumpets surrounding the squared circle, the v-a-s-t majority of chippies associated with the sport have gotten the ridiculous notion they can step through the ropes with minimal training, athletic ability and knowledge of the profession and participate in a match. That's like assuming you can play the piano because all you need to do is press the right keys.

As such, the grand total of mat mistresses who have been selected Hubba Hubba Honeys is zero.  Until now.  Please allow me to present a real knockout who can really knock you out, WWE wrestler--not "diva"--Victoria, my official future ex-fiancée.

Those who follow the WWE spent the greater part of this decade drooling over fake-boobed, no-waistline Trish Stratus, a bottle blonde who took an entire career to finally work her way up to merely adequate.  That's because most grap fans are morons and wouldn't have the first clue what to do with a dame, even if she came with operating instructions.  In the meantime, a real woman like the long, lean, leggy and lovely Victoria remains virtually ignored by the masses, even though Trash in now retired.

Va-va-voom Vic is not only f-a-r finer than any of the Silicone Sallies who've come down the pike post-Y2K, she's also the hands-down top tendon-tearer.  Yet despite this, unskilled spoiled hags such as Nicole Richie are some nitwits' idea of a "hot" babe.

As I see it, every hetero male and gay female in the world owes Victoria a written apology.  I mean, this is a goddess who booted one of those plastic-pecs Playmates flush in the face, breaking the bimbo's nose; and how can you NOT love a woman who handles her bidness like that?!?

Victoria can kick your butt and look great doing it.  Come to think of it, that makes her the female equivalent of me.  What higher compliment could possibly be paid?

IIt's no secret what Stately thinks of Victoria!  

(Photo courtesty of wwe.com....so buy lots of their merchandise.)