Talent Shows

Although you could really trace everything back to the seminal 80s television show, “Real People” (and some would argue “The Gong Show”), reality talent shows are all the rage.

Last night we watched a show about comedians competing for a show on Comedy Central and an exclusive contract with NBC (translation: We’ll give you bit gimmick parts on shitty shows and not pay you.) The surprising thing was how funny these guys actually were. I laughed harder at them that I do at most “established” comics outside of George Carlin. These amateurs could kick Carrot Top’s ass and leave him dead behind the comedy club. In fact, I almost wish they would . . .

American Idol set the stage. Part car wreck, part High School talent show, every episode is filled with suspense. Who will be voted off? Will they cry? What songs will they butcher this week? Oh good, it’s a Rick Ashley songbook tonight. Yay! That’s a short episode. I do like to watch the show to see what Simon will say to people. The man is cruel and I love it. (Anyone who thinks he’s too cruel to the “talent” has obviously never been involved in a writer’s workshop in any way, shape or form.)

In fact, I’m a little upset that there is no talent show for writers. We have singers, comedians, gold diggers, survivors and even pet stars. Why not writers? We can call it “American Novelist” and invite 10 writers to compete for a publishing contract and a good ranking on Amazon.

Each week the writers would submit a short story to the panel and have portions read live on the air. Then the panel of judges, Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, David Sedaris and George Plimpton tear their work apart and make them cry.

Again, if you’ve never been involved in a workshop, you have no idea how humiliating and funny this would be. It would be great!

Our first contestant, John Wheeler, reads a passage from his work “Poet.”

John reads: “The window hung over his head like the dust in a dying poet’s apartment.”*

Vonnegut: “Stop. What the hell is that?”

John: “It’s my opening line.”

Plimpton: “What exactly are you trying to say?”

John: “That he was looking out the window.”

Sedaris: “Then say that.”

Vonnegut: “That’s not writing. That’s not even a story. That’s bad poetry. Say what you mean. Don’t give me this shit about dying poets and dust. If you want someone to read your work then make it interesting. You don’t win. Next!”

Cynthia Johnson then reads her story about a woman who lives in the scary house at the end of the road. The woman, who somehow lives in the city and the country at the same time because she not only lives at the end of the block but also has a corn field, is named Thelma Wildthong.**

Walker: “Wait, what’s her name?”

Cynthia: “Thelma Wildthong.”

Sedaris: “And this is comedy?”

Cynthia: “No, this is a drama about how this woman was misunderstood and the children in the neighborhood can actually learn a lot from her experiences and eccentricities.”

Plimpton: “I didn’t get that.”

Cynthia: “It’s a coming of age story.”

Vonnegut: “I thought it was about an old woman named Thelma Wildfart.”

Cynthia: “Thong. Wildthong.”

Vonnegut: “Who cares. It’s bad writing that’s not even suitable for an ABC After School Special. Get off my stage and sell your computer. You may never write again.”

Cynthia: Cries.

Next up is Simon Watercress who reads a convoluted story about vampires who are really responsible for the assassination of JFK.**

Plimpton: “Go away.”

Sedaris: “I’m gay and even I don’t want to be like Anne Rice. Your story made me want to kill myself with a knitting needle, a cheese grater and a garlic press.”

Vonnegut: “If all my years of smoking had been successful and I had died on schedule I would have been spared this pain. Being a prisoner of war in World War II was more pleasant than that.”

The best part would be the final interviews with the losers.

Cynthia: “Clearly these so-called authors don’t understand what I was trying to do. They wouldn’t know good symbolism or narrative if it landed in their laps like a dead pigeon.”

Simon: “I don’t want to be Anne Rice. I want to better her work. I want to take it up a notch and invent a new form of politically tinged horror. I’ll keep writing. I don’t value their opinions at all. What’s a few honors from the Pulitzer Prize and the American Society of Arts and Letters. They just don’t get me. I’ve been drinking as much as possible, just like any good writer. I have to go home and beat my girlfriend just like Faulkner did.”

John: “I’m a sensitive soul and they have to understand that. Words are like daggers that tear through my flesh, which is like rice paper that has Chinese calligraphy written in the blood of thousands of starving children. Perhaps they didn’t understand my dénouement.”

On second thought . . . it would never make it to a second episode because half the authors would kill themselves after being rejected. It’s a shame too, because I’d love to see it. You’d see more people crying than during the elimination round of Miss America. Sweet.

*Taken from an actual story I heard critiqued in a workshop in which Kurt Vonnegut participated.

**Taken from an actual story I read in a workshop.

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