I wasn’t planning on writing about Carrie Underwood’s painfully wooden live performance last night in NBC’s misbegotten, and ill-fated, “dead” re-enactment of the fabulous Rodgers & Hammerstein musical, “The Sound of Music.”
All the promotional wind leading up to the live event immediately prickled senses in the wrong direction. The show was being sold as some sort of feel-good, happy children, sparkling story full of singing and wonder and dancing when, in reality, the musical is actually extremely dark and threatening and dreary.
The musical moments in “The Sound of Music” drive the frightening plot forward into a total, creeping, Nazi occupation — and it is in the artful context of that delicate balancing between whistling in the graveyard while staring death straight in the face — that made Rodgers & Hammerstein musical geniuses.
Growing up in the 70′s, subliminal advertising was everywhere, and it was always a fun challenge to look at the modern advertising of the day and try to divine the nocturnal missions hidden therein.
“Sex” was a big seller in every way — the most famous evidence of such being the strategically placed curls in Farrah’s hair on her infamous poster. The “S” in “Sex” is found on her right shoulder, the “e” swirls in the curls above her breasts, and the “x” is found dangling on the inside of her opposite shoulder.
Young men pinned that image to their walls and found great thrills in that lightning rod smile, that hair, and those absolutely hard, and forbidden, nipples! Yes, Charlie’s Angels on TV was all about erect nipples showing through skimpy bathing suit tops and sweaters.
On today’s television, female nipples are verboten and often blurred by self-censoring series producers. All the visceral, sexual, fun has been blurred out of current media mainstream. I’m so glad we have the Universal channel on cable TV where early-morning Charlie’s Angels reruns often appear, uncensored, and still in their full-nipple fury to satisfy the immature little boy left behind in most of us.
Season Six of “The Mentalist” ended last night and it was a terrific season finale. We were left wondering about the “seven suspects” that I suspect are no longer suspects at all since Red John has identified them all to our beloved protagonist Patrick Jane. As much as I love Australian actor Simon Baker, I am distraught that I now realize the only proper way the series can finally end is in his death at the hands of the Real Red John: His soon-to-be-lover-and-still-boss, Teresa Lisbon. Yes, Teresa Lisbon is Red John and always has been because, you see, it can be no other way and still honor the moral code of the series.
Have you ever heard of the “Quarterlife Crisis” that is taking the USA by storm? Me neither! However, listening to the local CBS television news stations across the country this week wholeheartedly suggests there is horror afoot and your twentysomething life is in danger!
[Publisher's Note: The last Marshall Jamison poem we published here in Boles Blogs was -- Paul's Wife -- on June 15, 2000. Marshall died September 2, 2003 at the age of 85. We still massively miss him. Boles Blogs author Steve Gaines -- who worked with Marshall in educational television in Nebraska -- recently found the following poem Marshall wrote to celebrate Steve's retirement from the network. Steve was kind enough to email us Marshall's original, handwritten, poem -- which we are overjoyed to present to you today: The first new Marshall Jamison poem published here in 13 years; and a decade after his death.]
I woke to the sad news this morning that Mindy McCready — mother of two young children, country music singer, and star of Dr. Drew Pinsky’s “Celebrity Rehab” — was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Those of us who watched Celebrity Rehab could see this end bearing down on Mindy from afar, and the question was always not if she’d be run over by life, but when. As of yesterday, we have our answer, and now the mourning for her children must begin.
Super Bowl 47 was played last night — and while it was a great game — the whole spectacle of the Super Bowl is totally played out. The halftime show is boring and unspectacular — how many times do we have to see Beyoncé bouncing her booty in our homes to get the point that she has an enormous butt? The television commercials are predictable. The “funny” commercials always end in a jokey, visual, “gotcha” you can see coming a mile away — while the “serious” commercials drip a sugary false-sympathy that enrages one to screaming and bloodletting.