Due to the overwhelming response to my last entry, I--heh heh. Sorry, even I can't keep a straight face when I write that. Um, due to the overwhelming response to my reality show idea, For Love or Jihad, I feel like tacking on an addition. There are a lot of lonely Average Joes and Janes out there. To them I put the following hypothetical situation: Let's say you encounter someone whom you feel could be that special someone. And let's say, several months into the relationship, he/she suddenly reveals that he/she is an Islamic militant. Not only that, but they feel the relationship cannot continue unless YOU--that's right, YOU--join their Islamic or other radical fundamentalist group. To quote Karl Malden: What will you do? WHAT WILL YOU DO?

Be honest, people. God knows we're already expected to change ourselves for the other person. But how far is too far?

I was watching the news the other day, and according to one of the latest bulletins on terrorism, Islamic extremists have begun targeting couples for recruitment. That gives me an idea…

My idea for a Reality Show:

From the creators of BLIND! DEAF! Or MUTE! and Harlem Renaissance…

FOR LOVE OR JIHAD!

Pitch: Take your average guy. Set him up with his “dream girl,” only he doesn’t know he’s been set up. Let the couple date for a few months, until he’s certain that he’s met the perfect mate. But hold on. Turns out there’s a catch to his “dream girl”—she’s an Islamic extremist! And she doesn’t see a future for them unless he becomes an Islamic extremist too!

How far is the average guy willing to go for his dream girl?

The reality show will chronicle four couples week-to-week, cutting back-and-forth between them. Think of the possibilities! Poor shleppy guys dragging themselves to Islamic churches, Koran schools, training camps. Naturally, all of the aforementioned will be “fake”—but how’s the poor shlep to know? And he’ll be so uncomfortable that it’ll be funny! Especially the fake re-programming camp!

Now of course, For Love or Jihad is not meant to be strictly entertainment. It also asks important social questions, such as:

How much do we really know about our mates?

How much do we really know about Islamic fundamentalism?

If anyone can think of any other questions this show asks, let me know.

PARTNERSHIP FOR A ‘NICK AND NORM’-FREE AMERICA:

Nick: This, uh, this whole “drugs fund terrorists” argument is complicated.

Norm (Looking incensed and borderline constipated.): Complicated?

Nick: Yeah. Complicated.

Norm: I am supporting my opinions with nothing except more opinions. I will not make reference to anything that could potentially support my case. My chief argument is my constipated-looking face, which says “You are stupid if you don’t agree with me.” Why should you believe me when I say that drugs fund terrorists? Because I say so.

Nick: Okay, it’s not so complicated.


NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY UNRELATED:

You know, I stopped watching TV a ways back because of anti-drug commercials. Is it just me, or do they occassionally have the tendency to get a wee bit too intense? I remember when I was ten, watching cartoons on the couch in the den back in Miami. It’s, like, eleven in the morning, I’m waiting for the next round of Bugs Bunny cartoons, and here comes this 30-second spot for Partnership for a Drug-Free America. I never saw the same spot again (Not that I was actively looking.) It wouldn’t surprise me if parents had called ABC and verbally berated them for showing something that intense and horrifying during a CHILDREN’S CARTOON, ‘cause believe me, Marilyn Manson videos weren’t this chilling.

Basically, the spot featured this guy working in a morgue. Not a normal-looking mortician, but a hairless, Nosferatu-looking fucker. Bald, pale skin with pink patches, rings under his eyes. And I could swear he had fangs, or at the very least, really prominent canines.

Nosferatu spends his 30 seconds of fame opening various doors in his mortuary, and PULLING OUT DEAD BODIES! Sure, they still have those corpse-clothes draped over them, but THIS IS DURING A CHILDREN’S CARTOON! And the camera, making like Wes Craven, tracks right up to the frozen slabs! “Here’s a fresh one who did a little too much marijuana!” Nosferatu says in the background. Again, this is a CHILDREN’S CARTOON!

All I wanted was to watch Bugs Bunny cartoons. Now suddenly, I’m being exposed to this! Good lord! Remote controls weren’t in widespread use yet, and anyway, I was a little kid—I was transfixed. That 30-second spot seemed to go on forever. Only after showing all us little tykes as many dead corpses as he can, does Nosferatu grant us some mercy. But this is no happy ending. The last thing Nosferatu says is “Pot. Join the party.” He laughs, and the camera does a whoosh pan right up to his hideous, laughing face. And there’s bright light in the background. Everything is hazy. The message to me is clear: When I die, I will not go to Heaven. Instead, I will go to HIM, the avatar, whom I shall have to fight for my very soul.

I was probably reading a little too deeply towards the end. So anyway, I wonder how many people out there saw that same 30-second anti-drug ad, and were deeply scarred by its blatantly inappropriate material. Write in and let me know. Strangely, all the combined anti-drug ads in the world never deterred me from experimenting in college (Nor did they push me towards it.) However, they did succeed in making me never want to watch commercials again. Maybe I should’ve written THAT to the Ad Council.

Update!

Okay, here’s a synopsis of the past weekend plus Friday.

FRIDAY:

Did a stupid one-day temp gig at a brokerage house called Lebenthal & Something. Worked the switchboards for the brokers. I had no prior experience with switchboard phones, but I hung in there valiantly. Actually, I spent most of the day hovering over the switchboard nervously, looking like some bomb control guy with his wirecutters on the blue wire. The other secretaries were visibly nervous. One of them had to “talk me down.”

But all in all I had a good time. They promised that, if they need another temp in the coming week, they will give my staffer a call.

Spent Friday night hanging out with an old friend from my NYU days. Basically, we hung out at his apartment, where I mangled the Spanish language in conversations with him and his sister. I also did a bunch of different dumbbell reps, to see if I enjoy them. Yes, I am looking into freeweights. Yes, I am quite vain.

Got back to the Brooklyn House around ten that evening. Local video store was still open, so I figured, what better way to close the day off than by renting a few movies? For less than $5, I got Tsui Hark’s Black Mask 2 and Sergio Leone’s classic Once Upon a Time in America. That’s a combined 6 hours of movie for less than $5. I figured I could afford to splurge, after my day at bomb squad—er, the switchboard.

I had to have dinner, so movie night didn’t actually start until midnight. That means I didn’t watch the movies on Friday, but on the contrary, I watched them on…

SATURDAY:

Stayed up all night watching BM2 (Yeesh.) and OUATIA (Yay!) The sun was up by the time I was finished, and while I was exhausted, I had trouble falling asleep. I had Maggie’s party to attend in less than twelve hours. My clock read 7:30 AM, so I figured, I’ll just catch a quick eight hours or so, then I’ll catch the subway to Queens. At some point during that thought, I fell asleep…

I woke up feeling great. I figured, “This must be what the Star Baby in 2001 feels like when he finally wakes up—you know, when he actually wakes up.” Clock read 9:30. I’m like, “Cool. Two hours and I’m good as new. Say, why is it so dark in here?”

As most of you have figured out, I slept for fourteen hours, not two. I did some prolonged screaming, then did some quick calculations in my head:

Shower, dress = :30 hours.
Bus/subway/subway to Sam/Adan’s house in Queens = 2:00 hours at least.
9:30 + 2:30 = Midnight.
Midnight = Party probably over.

So I did not attend Maggie’s party.

Phil = Worst person ever.

Maggie, if you’re reading this, I goofed. I’m sorry I never showed up, but Happy Birthday anyway. Please direct your ill feelings/ letterbombs to Lebenthal and Something, the Chase Manhatten building in mid-town. There’s every chance I will be there sometime this week, and my wirecutters should still be in my desk.