Speaking out for a Muzzled Hero of Mine.

As you may know, the Hollywood writers strike looks to bitterly continue for some time, and while many shows are now affected, the ones I miss the most are the late night talk shows.

For me, (being their target demographic and all) none are missed more that the Daily Show and Colbert Report. I enjoy both, but I feel that Jon Stewart can ride out this strike with relative ease.

It's Colbert that I worry about.



Being a marketing professional for most of my adult life, I have seen many glossy pitches, heard many speeches delivered in dulcet tones that invoke a feeling of wanting to be part of whatever they are hawking (that's sales and marketing in a nutshell, folks.) But in my short tenure on this planet, I have never seen such a brilliant self-promotionalist as Stephen Colbert.

Now, some of you may argue that Stephen Colbert is normal a man, or just a character he portrays, or a talking head that reads what ever his brilliant writers put in front of him, but I say there is no need to parse up his identity. He is all those things, and he is set forth up this world to entertain me. (OK you too, but more for me. :P )

I imagine Stephen Colbert as more like Xerxes as portrayed in "300." Sitting upon his giant golden throne, God-King supreme, his every wish and need fulfilled by a countless horde of adoring slaves. All he asks from the rest of us is our subservience and love, and he will make all our wishes come true.



Now many of his adoring slaves have abandoned his golden throne and joined the picket line in Hollywood. How can the God-King survive this drought of endless love??

Fear not, mister Colbert. There are are those of us that lurk in the shadows who will support you during this time. Allow me to show my bonafides:



I am waiting to surrender it, but no one more famous than I has meandered by yet.

So Colbert, I am here to keep your name in the news, starting with my tiny daily audience. Perhaps others will be inspired to take up the challenge of keeping you in the spotlight. I pledge to mention you at least once a week until the strike is over, and then you won't need my humble offerings.

You may think that he will never know of my support, but thanks to the power of Google Alerts, he or his duly designated majordomo or hunchback sidekick will see my little post sooner or later. And yes, he does already have an adoring fanbase that can be readily found at Colbert Nation, but they offer nothing as insightful or snarky as I can.

And Stephen, (may I call you that, or do you prefer God-King?) should you feel the need to get some pressing news tidbit out though a trusted news source, I stand ready to pass it on to the adoring proletariat masses.

SA

P.S. Being a hand model is harder than it looks. I never knew I could be so vain about shots of my appendages, this was the 5th take, before I lost the light...

I remember.

No humor today. It will return tomorrow.

Early May, 2001:

The dot coms were collapsing at an exponential rate, and I found myself bounced out along with a quarter million others that year. Near-total industry meltdown. Everyone I knew, every contact I worked hard to make was gone along with me, my career and job title meant nothing, and the 50K in shares in three main companies were now worth exactly . . .dick. The day I got laid off, the company promoted my longtime colleague girlfriend, and that spelled the end of our casual relationship.

After 4 weeks of feeling sorry for myself, calling everyone I knew, and going on major bender, I decided that I could not just hang around the house, or I would be dead by Christmas. I had just recently managed a trade show staff of six for thirty tradeshows a year, had a 500k budget to oversee, as well as expert SEO knowledge. Worthless. The main jobs now available in my chosen industry were either as IT gurus or sales monkeys, neither of which I craved.

I decided to go, in honored tradition, to the career Limbo that many of us have chosen at one time or another: Restaurant work.

As a busboy, at 31 years old. . .

I took a job at a 5 star restaurant that I had been going to for much of my life. It felt safe, I would still eat well, and everyone there drank like a fish. Most of the core staff regarded me as an mutant, as I was the only male non-Moroccan busser they had, older than most by 5 years, and they didn't know what to make of me. I persevered, struggled with the breakneck pace, and worked my way up to the decent shifts.

Within a month, I lost 20 pounds, and was absolutely ripped for the first time since 25. Another month, another 20 pounds, and I made the jump to waiter. I am good at memorization and can be charming when the mood strikes me, so I was going to be decent at it. The cash you can make as a 5 star waiter is actually pretty good. I took between $150 and $350 in cash per shift, and if I hadn't been pissing half it away drinking after hours, I would have been making more than a mid-level dotcom exec. And I got to wait on famous people: Our mayor, our former mayor our Governor, 3 congressmen, every weatherman in Denver, Aerosmith, Al Gore, etc.

With fall fast approaching, I was having the most fun in five years. No faxes, no meetings, free food, toned and fit, and all the female companionship I would ever require with no messy relationships. Actually I felt a little like Tom Hank's character in "Big", I was having a great time, but I felt there was a life I was supposed to get back to.

Sunday, September 10:

I took a girl I was seeing out for dinner for her birthday, and we drank and partied until the wheels came off. I made it back home from her house around 4:30 am, and since I wasn't on until the night shift, I planned to sleep until 2:30 pm. . .

*Ring* ... *Ring*... *Ring*...*Ring*

6:58 am

No way was I answering that. It might be some fool who wanted me to cover his shift, and I was in no condition for that. Ice picks were stabbing my skull from every side.

I check the display: it was my roommates’ girlfriend. Reluctantly, I picked up.

"Hellllooooo?" I said in a groggy voice. I was severely hung over.

"Is Trent there?" she said. She sounded like she was crying.

"Mmmm . . .no. . .Sorry . . . he left for work" Lying thru my teeth, as I knew where he actually had spent his night.

"If you hear from him, please tell him to turn on the TV right away!" She sniffed some more, clearly sounding sad.

"What channel?" I sighed.

"Any fucking channel." She hung up.

That got my attention. She never cursed.

I woke up enough to shuffle down to the living room and switched on the TV.

9-11-01:

Attacks in progress. Both towers were smoking, and I sat down with the rest of the world to try to get a grasp on what happened. They showed the second plane going into the tower over and over. I switched channels. She was right, it was one every network, and many of the cable channels. All were showing the exact same footage, over and over. I saw a man standing in a gash on an upper floor jump to his death, and I wondered why he couldn’t wait for the rescue crews to get to him. I imagined news crews everywhere in the US scrambling to get to the scene to capture all the lurid detail, as they had with Okalahoma City and Columbine.

I remembered that we had just executed Timmy McVeigh for being the rabid dog that he was last month, and I wondered if some of his militia cronies were behind this.

Like many others, I was shaken to my core. I had recently been part of a massive global economic expansion, and I foolishly had really believed that the world was never going to see another massive war again. That the major countries were becoming so interdependent on each other for trade, war could never be risked. And possibly, it was becoming clear to all that with massive technology breakthroughs, conventional war was not a winnable option. The best you could hope was to fight to a standstill. Did not Korea and Vietnam clearly show this?

When the towers collapsed, I cried. I was sad for the victims, and I was sad for America. Who hated us so much as to attack civilians?

And where were the Air Raid Sirens? It had been ingrained since birth to listen to for that irritating warble, to warn us of impending attack and violent weather, and I never head a peep from them. Wasn’t this exactly what we’ve been drilling for all these years?

Another call. The girl I saw last night called, and we talked about the scene playing out before us on TV. She wailed bitterly that this tragedy was going to ruin her birthday from now on. Being moody and hung over, I told her that she was a self-absorbed brat, and to pay attention to the big picture. Obviously, that is not what she wanted to hear, and so began the slow spiral of the end of our burgeoning relationship. Nice job, Sarcasm. I moved on, I had other things to worry about anyway and the premature death of that relationship allowed me to meet an intense smart-mouthed young woman who would eventually become my sweet wife.

As everyone did, I hurt. I always have a snappy comment or running joke that I can fire off at a moment’s notice, but it felt wrong. It felt right just to morn for awhile. I couldn’t be funny. Also, watching CNN headline news 24 hours a day for a week straight wasn’t healthy. If you don’t kill yourself within two weeks doing this, check your pulse, you must already be dead.

September 20th, 2001:

When regular programming finally returned on September 20th, the first show I watched was the Daily Show. Jon Stewart’s emotional opening seemed to speak to exactly how I was feeling and by the end of that, I felt cleansed. I turned off CNN, took a long shower and got my shit together. Thanks Jon. Then I began to send out resumes again. While restaurant life was fun for awhile, it was a job with no future, except certain alcoholism.

This national tragedy was a sign for me that I had to better myself as a person. I found new employment, lower that what I had become accustomed to in the heady dot com boom, but stable and low stress. I met my wife, and I reenrolled in school, partially to finish the degree I left so long ago, but mostly to try to gain more wisdom, more insight, and find a way that I might personally better the world in which I lived.

Time will tell.

I tell you all that to tell you this. I remember 911. I know how it personally changed me, and I don’t forget. I rail against the politicians and talking heads of all stripes seek to use that event for their own purposes, first to unite us as a nation, then to divide us into smaller and smaller squabbling groups. I remember a leader who squandered the collective goodwill of the world and the trust of a united nation when we might have needed it the most. I remember every promise made left unfulfilled. I remember the Red Cross using the money I sent them to specifically help the families who lost loved ones on 9/11 for shortfalls in their other programs. I remember the specific stepping stones set to lead us down the inevitable path to war with Iraq, and will most likely lead to further war with Iran. I remember that our nation's actions have subjected another nations citizens to unimaginable horrors in the name of my protection.

I feel that 9/11 was a very personal moment for each of us in America, unique and yet unifiing, and something that can not be assuaged by the vague platitudes of those who crave power.

I remember and will never forget, I do what I can to improve the world around me with insight and occasional humor.

What do you remember?

SA