What's the media message?
Between tabloids, magazines and newspapers you can learn a lot. Apparently Oprah continues to shed pounds while Kristie Ally gains. Ukraine's opposition party leader, Yanukovich was poisoned by a third party member. Liberia doesn't have jobs refugees from Africa had hoped for,so they are heading to Europe. Donald Trump's three children will surprisingly follow in his footsteps building million dollar estates and maybe they too will rack up two billion dollars in debt. Front page story in the Times was two downtrodden women helping their stepson's crack addiction. Yesterday ran a story about autism. Kerik is no longer taking over the homeland security position, his illegal maid is holding him back. Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt are in trouble, but so is Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey.
International and national breaking news is accompanied by puff and soft news, distracting the public from the stories that matter. It is difficult to focus on a top story when they are so often eroded by a sensationalistic graphic or a piece about high spending numbers in luxury brands and specialty stores. When the paper arrives and updates about the war in Iraq are not on the front page or first inside story, it gets me questioning the media's agenda- to entertain or inform. Thus the new word which makes a journalist cringe- infotainment. The message drowns in the media clutter which makes our marketplace a free flow of ideas. And we just stand there and watch.

From Garden to Empire

I have started to wear high heels. The slanted floor bothers me less. Well-constructed fire escape, a dewy air conditioner, some wild vine and moss, the building next door. Please keep the shade of the kitchen window down. The red brick of the hearth is masked in ash and charcoal grey. In the winters, past residents have generated heat by rubbing sticks together. A white leather sofa cushions against the wall, four steps from the bed. Every corner is utilized, but all the furniture is aligned and strategically placed. Light greens, deeper burgundies color comfort. In rectangular lint-infested area rugs, hardwood-dirt-hugging floors, and tic-tac-toe ceiling planks are elements of decor. Lift and jiggle the handle, slide the key half way in and turn to the right. One must know the trick to opening doors. Hum, thump, swish. Each unfamiliar noise is assigned to an anonymous neighbor or outside inhabitant.
The church bell chimes four notes and chimes four more. Traffic muffles sound; of the dog's bark, the plane in flight, a suitcase wheeling through the streets. Once I heard the city bird's squawk. A dirt faced man crumbling crackers, sharing his meal. The rain water chases passers-by before it trickles into sewers. Exposed feet splash into muddy currents, and track into unknown destinations. Lights change, signaling the pedestrian rhythmic movement thru street blocks and walkways. Travelers walk in pairs, menages, crowds. I prefer to walk alone.
Sometimes home comes to mind. Gardens I Sometimes home comes to mind. Gardens in a state where wildlife grows unassigned, unsuppressed. In the city, parks and squares serve as quarantines. Luxury is a tree in the window, a village outlined in branches and leaves. Peering through the glister acid-shower stained view, I wonder if anyone sees me. Voyeuristic perpetrators of privacy. The open curtain gathers at its corners, and anchored by a string, reveals an Italian caf?. Wooden tables, plastic plants, homemade pasta. A shadow, belonging to a heavy set man in a short sleeved cherry-red shirt, casts on the building. He sucks on a cigarette, mops a handkerchief along his forehead; reaches into his pocket to count lose change. Sheltered by an awning, one time white, now rust and beige, the man sits contemplating his purpose.
The pavement is pierced by a telephone pole, transporting calls, enabling conversations, curing loneliness. A bicycle leans against the metal rod, fasten by a chain, confined by a lock. The breeze slightly moves the front wheel, its prongs reel backwards. Passing the city's immobile obstacles; with whirling wheels in the wind. Blue mailbox to the right, wire trash receptacle to the left. Gliding through soapy suds meant to clean a storefront's sidewalk.
Clouds force the sky to turn grey and gleam. Visitors to the wine store, record shop, pastry place, butcher botcher become less. Shards of sun stream out and promise some time before the rain shower. Through the cement crevices of the poorly painted walls comes company. First a leg, then another, another, another. The creature is welcome to share this wall until his leave. A transparent string of traps for the unfortunate begins to resemble a snow flake, the nervous system, complex mathematical equations. There is a fine line that leads him from ceiling to window pane. Look out and with your numerous eyes, tell me what you see. It seems as if he may stay a while.
Perhaps he thinks its home.

I killed a celebrity
Well it got your attention, and you would probably be more apt to ask "who?" then "why?" See that's the thing that gets me - the public's fascination and total preoccupation with celebdom. My apartment in Miami used to have so many celebrity or "women's" magazines that I could have opened up a doctor's office, an OBGYN even. And it's a cry for help when the industry characterizes celeb magazines as women's mags because that means women haven't come as far as we think.

When you flip page after page, all the images of "perfection" and "beauty" makes women young and old idol worshipers of photo enhanced trick of the lens work. The woman probably doesn't even have her own legs (if it's a full shot), her own hair (if it's a headshot) is most likely hidden by extensions. As television personalities get thinner, it just makes my chocolate cake look better. She may look good, but when is the last time she took a bite this big.

Living in Miami for four years, you hear a lot about celebrities and sightings, where it's cool to club and the latest hot spot. In Greenwich Village, I live by Kate Hudson, the Olsen twins, Richard Gere...whoever. I am bored with the celebrity coverage, the Extra, E True Hollywood's. What is worse is seeing a celebrity on a reality show. Here's a celebrity the public claims to "know" and "love" on a "reality" show- scripted, staged and piloted. Can we get more further from realism? It's time to fight the overload of paparazzi shots. Britney Spears, Mandy Moore, Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson, you're dead.

Depression for Dummies
Lately there have been a lot of articles about depression and the drugs used to treat it. The New York Times Magazine ran an issue on suicide cases with teens taking Paxil and Zoloft found hanging in their closet or having drowned in their bathtub. Newspapers have cases with drug companies on the front page, refusing to release drug information or fighting with a family who's lost someone they love. Celebrities are going on Oprah and other daytime talk shows publicizing their depression, while profiles of the "depressed and successful" run on two page spreads in magazines.

Statistics prove women are more susceptible to depression than men, and younger children are the hardest to treat. As media exposure of the disease has grown, questions are raised about the plague of inescapable sadness and grief-like melancholy. The disease even sounds sad. Depression.

The mental condition is so perplexing because unless you are a doctor or a medically learned person, the complexities of depression are far too advanced to comprehend. It's difficult to even hear about these correctional drugs. Sideaffects like nausea,dry mouth and irregular heart beat are enough to get a normal person into a shlump.

Depression is discussed on network tv as a condition in its finality - once the individual is diagnosed, there is no escape, no hope. Seems a bit too pessimistic. All this "media talk" is enough to get the tears flowing. It's good to get the word out, but overexposure to all these sad cases and people is enough to make you for lack of a better word - depressed.

New Journalism : Who qualifies?
In this week's New York Times Magazine is an article called "How I Got That Interview" which semi-profiles and partly critiques Andy Warhol's contribution to journalism. It begins "Every writer ought to hate Andy Warhol." Naturally, I read on to see why I should despise who I knew to be a painter of ecelectic subjects and a well quoted artist since many hoped to capture his creativity. As a gift I was given "Andy Warhol's Idea Book." Within the blank pages of the journal are unconvention drawings of randomness--a collection of women's shoes, a naked angel, a page filled with violins and drawn sheet music. A quote I read got my wheels turning and pondering Warhol's place in history: "The mystery was gone but the amazement was just starting." His quote. My thinking at the time.

Back to why NYT Magazine is telling me Warhol is not just an artist, but classified as a new journalist with the likes of Tom Wolfe or Truman Capote. Why? Why is the man with a paint brush given a tape recorder and called a new journalist? Has the definition for new journalism completely gone awry with anyone who is "new" to the field?

He deserves to be the opposite of a new journalist if he hit the record button and transcribed word for word interviews to pass it off as his own writings. Of course, like every profit hungered authority on expression artistry should, his collections of "journalism" are now being sold. It is useful for interviews to be stored in a collection of text, but it is a mockery to call it "new journalism." While Wolfe and Capote try to get into the subject's mind and recreate emotions or thoughts for the benefit of the reader, Warhol propels criticism by taking his fame as an artist, and trying to pass for an edgy, unorthodox, add a side of intrigue addition to "new journalism." Anyone else hear the similarities between Warhol and Warthog? It was time for a roast.

Through the window
Today my mother is coming into the city to do some holiday shopping. We are planning on going to Canal Street and buying some scarves, bags and other pseudo-designer items for relatives and friends. After that we are heading off to the windows. It is that time of year where Macy's and Bloomies have their little people statues, scenic winter-themed landscapes and Christmas inspired window displays. It faintly reminds me of Disney World to walk by these windows and see dancing, bobbing, mechanical dolls imprisoned in a faux setting of cotton ball snow and cardboard backdrops. Who could resist gawking at such architectural masterpieces?

Cold December Day
Since it is such a cold, dreary day, I decided to start a blog and flex my fingers. In Radical Media Criticism, the professor preaches blogs are the new wave of the future, improving communication and the use of the internet in online publication form and fashion. The first blogger was talking quite likely to him/herself, while now there are audiences tracking and stalking popular social commentators and iconic political pundits across the web. It's fascinating how something so obscure to older generations is rapidly infesting the minds of media savvy Americas. Why has blogging emerged at this historic period of time? Have we finally caught up to technology? Is it part of the obsession we have with reality television and relating to one another any chance we get? Americans are oppressed, companionship deprived, media moguls seeking preservation and commemoration of their every thought. Or is this a trend that will vanish with the invention of the microchip computer which is inserted under the skin and connected wirelessly to the brain? Think and it types - with no kinetic energy wasted. Now that's preservation.