Can Romney's Bain Capital Save Iconic Hostess Twinkies (& America) by Squeezing Out The Last of its Cream Filling?

By Danny Alias

Junk food giant Hostess Brands announced earlier this year that it is headed for bankruptcy… or at least reorganization in a very large corporate mixing bowl.  

How is it possible that the maker of some of America’s most iconic snacks cannot make a profit selling to the world’s fattest people? 

Sure “Twinkies Light” weren't exactly a hit, but you didn’t see the New Coke people running for cover when the carbonation hit the fan.  No, they rolled up their sleeves, blamed their advertising agency and rebranded Coca-Cola Classic like an unexcused burp.

“What New Coke?  That never happened.  Just like the Bush years.”  To quote one official: “We weren’t there that day!”

Enter Mitt “the split” Romney and the magic that is Bain Capital.  Finally, here it is:  An opportunity to turn words into action, water into wine, PAC into man… or at least baked goods into something half-baked.  Consider the mouth watering, money making opportunity at hand...

Romney/Bain takes over the struggling Hostess empire… an American institution so beloved it's Twinkies were once used as a successful murder defense.  Can Doritos make such a claim?  Maybe in Mexico, my Pinko friend, but not in the good old You S. of Eh...

What better way to prove to the voters that you are the real job creator— a true success story—than by acquiring Hostess Brands and showing us all what you do best.  Batter up, Mitt!

First, Romney/Bain could suck out the cream filling of every newly made Twinkie, just like the economy.  After all, the center is only taste and empty promises.  Right wing out of the oven he’s cutting costs, waste and most of what makes life worth living.

Second-- all those bakers? One word: Elves! Replace all those high earning Union bakers with elves. Give those Keebler Commies a run for their fudge pot.  Yes, non-union, low paid, loyal, slavish elves.  If it’s good enough for Santa Klaus, it’s good enough for Romney/Bain Capital.  In essence, they'd be doubling the work force by cutting everyone (literally) in half.  Finally these are numbers which FOX News and the "L" slanted media can agree upon.

Third:  Innovate.  As has been speculated, the shelf life of a Hostess Twinkie can be well over 20 years... much like the common Speaker of the House Cat   Many people are on their second wife and/or third family with the passing of this much time, but enough about Newt. We have bigger frogs to fry.  No wonder Hostess went belly up and trailer wide.

No, Romney/Bain Twinkies will be bakery fresh for no more than 24 hours… taking on the fare at Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme.  This can be American competitions' finest hour, as that's how long lard digestion usually takes. The only thing that ever goes stale in this country is imagination.

Fourth:  Retool.  Think out of the box.  Unsold Twinkies (now as hard as concrete and manufactured at half the price) can be used in lieu of bricks for new home construction. In fact, many of the banks can use the old Twinkie wrappers as loan documentation, as the ingredients and fine print are almost identical.

Now imagine thousands of gated communities all built with the new Romney/Bain Twinkies.   Who knows where this future could lead?  Perhaps fiber optic cables made of Twizzlers!

At a recent Texas evangelical convention the attendees were unable to agree upon a single candidate to endorse…. in lieu of Mitt Romney, of course.  However, this all male bastion of public decency did agree on one saintly thing: Hostess Brands are the Devil’s Food.  Which leads us to...

Fifth: Rebrand. Words like “Cupcake” and “Twinkies” make these guys very nervous.  To them, Hostess is the Lolita of bakeries, putting unspeakably nasty “tween” thoughts into their very married heterosexual, but asexual heads. (See Michele Bachmann's hope chest.)

It’s that whole Brooke Shields/Pretty Baby wet dream nightmare all over again, isn't it?  Now do you see why Hollywood must be abolished and replaced with a biblical theme park?  And no, not Dolly Wood West.

But it gets worse, much worse.  “Ho Hos?”  “Sno Balls?”  “Ding Dongs?”  Must we even go there by definition?   If such things need to be explained to you, please write Dan Savage. (Just don’t Google Santorum!)

“Ho Hos” & “Sno Balls" & “Ding Dongs”... Oh, My!  All these are not only Hostess products, but sexual acts committed during the last Republican AND Democratic conventions. To this day, if you dial HOSTESS on your phone it takes you directly to an escort service that specializes in food fetishes.  Madam Cake Boss, I believe.

Sixth.  Why is there no Third Party in this country?  Because most of our elected officials have simultaneously run out of both perversions and unhealthy snack options.  No wonder we hate the French.

But can Mitt Romney turn America around... or as the odd saying goes... take it back?  For his sake, I hope he kept his receipt. Perhaps more importantly:  Can he turn on an oven… or just a SuperPAC?

This is one very old Twinkie who’d bet his bottom Ding Ding that he doesn’t have a Sno Ball’s chance in Suzy Q.  But enough with the Zingers.  Just vote!

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com
www.WhenDannyMetSally.com

Copyright WDMS 2012

Vaudeville Isn't Dead, Though Pepper 'n Sam Are... Sort Of

By Danny Alias

These days, after the passing of such luminaries as Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston, we can now appreciate death as a smart (& horizontal) career move.  Unintended, perhaps, but nothing sells more music than an early demise and proper estate planning.  

Just ask Elvis.  He left the building... and the world... some 35 years ago, yet his fame and wealth continue to grow.  In fact, 95% of Elvis is now owned by a single investment group.  And it's not Lisa Marie, her mother or any of the Presley family.

That heavenly sound you hear is that of a cash register laughing.

Which brings us to the clever coupling of Pepper Mills (Salty Brine) and Play-It-Again Sam (Justin Levine.)   Yes, Pepper 'n Sam are dead... or at least their alter egos are... and it appears there are plenty of egos to go 'round in that Big Vaudeville House in the sky.

"Semi-famous" before flaming out in long-ago theatre fire, Pepper 'n Sam are tragically stuck in today's vaudeville circuit along with their back-up band, The Dead Poets Society.  If you gotta have a gimmick, it might as well be a ghostly one.  As Pepper might intone:  Who you gonna call?  Bra Busters?"

Now why, you may ask, does this pair of ghouls fascinate us so?  Well for starters, nothing says vintage like the dead.  From their vintage costuming, House of White Pancake makeup and swinging/rock 'n roll lifestyle, these two kids scream retro from beyond the grave.

Not only is this one hard act to follow, but it's a double homicide to describe.  So where do we begin?

Firstly, Pepper & Sam are a brother and sister act... sort of.  Personally I find this really refreshing... in the same way the Carpenters were refreshing.   With no sexual dynamic between them (Thank, God), this becomes more a family act, though not in a "G" rated sense.  No, Pepper & Sam love and support each other without the baggage that say... Steve & Edie... or the Captain and Tennille had to lug around and/or pretend... even though the Captain was more Teller than Penn.

What remains is an unconditional support of the other sibling.  OK, Sam is an oversexed lothario who's had more pussy than an animal shelter in the Spring... but his vocal range and musical abilities compliment the fact that he clearly packs a large pianist.   Pepper may wave a disdainful finger at his love for the ladies, but she keeps a watchful eye on her troublesome little brother.  If nothing else, death has brought them closer together; in the end, they only have each other.  That... and the memories of a wildly theatrical music career.

And what can be said about Pepper Mills?  She too is not above using her sexual wiles to stop nothing less than World War I.   (Oh, yes... their clever cabaret act is a virtual world tour of historical events which, in one fashion or another, these two have had a finger... or some other appendage in.)  

However for as much a vamp as this is camp, Pepper is still very much a Lady (again, sort of.)   Her pre-atomic vocals play the musical field like the underground stylings of the Manhattan Project.  Together, these two are mega-tons of fun to watch, hear and fear.  I mean, they are ghosts afterall.  Something in this show will spook you... and it may very well be Pepper's big surprise!

Their latest tour is called: "Pepper 'n Sam: Whatever Possessed Them?" and it's an apt question.  Shades of Kiki (Justin Bond) & Herb may shadow this duo, but their career has an afterlife of it's own (unlike the now truly defunct K&H.)  Comparisons may abound:  K&H were old vaudevillians; Pepper 'n Sam go one step further into an early grave.  Some of their mutual material is a bit too close for comfort, but let's face it: When a ghost sees an opening, it goes for it.  Clearly there is a void with K&H gone; and again, what is death but one big "void" to avoid?

My best friend and I recently saw these "Apparitions from Prohibition" as they call themselves at a dead-cool space known as Ars Nova at 511 W. 54th in NYC.  (ArsNovaNYC.com.)  However, Pepper 'n Sam can be dug up around town and across the country at various alternative music clubs, if not a cemetery or three.  If there's a piano and a well stocked bar, look for them underneath both.

Also check out more of their videos on YouTube; follow them on Facebook for their next (dis)appearance.  I do feel that some of their BEST material was not represented online.  You just have to see them live... or as live as they get... which is pretty damn lively for doubly dead crooners.  They routinely bring down the house...if not the mausoleum. 

The grave bottom line?  Their greatest talent is morphing musical genres via melodies which cross the centuries-- Clever, funny, unexpected, perhaps unsettling, but that's just what good little Ghosties do best. 

I, for one, am a fan for life... and even after that. 

Here's to Pepper 'n Sam:  May you be dead forever-- Your greatest hits are still to come!

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com
www.WhenDannyMetSally.com
Copyright WDMS 2012

Paul America: Warhol's Long Lost Superstar

By Danny Alias

In 1981, I met Paul America in Chicago.  I didn't know who he was at first.  He said his name was Paul and he was passing through town to visit a friend; said he lived on a commune in Indiana. Thirty years later, my memory may lag on the details, but not on the intensity of the meeting.

Paul America was someone you just didn't forget.  Strikingly handsome, he had a certain grace that was, to be honest, intoxicating.  I assumed he was a model or an actor, but clearly he was not the dumb blond type.  He had a country boy style infused with a big city wit that was disarming, yet totally charming.  You'd swear he could melt the ice cubes in your glass with just a long, thoughtful stare. 

He knew he was attractive, but was dismissive, almost embarrassed about the matter.  I recall complimenting him once and he just said: "Thank you!"  I knew not to do that again.

I recall chatting with him for hours about many things, but he held back most anything of a personal nature.  Finally, toward the end of a rather long evening, he said to me:  "Have you ever heard of Paul America?"

"Oh, yes," I said, not making the connection.  "He's one of those Warhol people, right?"

"Well," he said softly... "That used to be me."

In the mid 1960's Andy Warhol decided to create his own studio system, creating "Superstars" as they were called, like those of the Golden Age of Hollywood.  Today Edie Sedgwick is most often remembered as the icon on the decade, however she was not the first star in the galaxy to come.

No, the early stars launched at the Factory during Warhol's first forays into film were such performers as Viva, Ultra Violet, Ondine, Candy Darling, Brigid Berlin, Hollywood Lawn-- Some real women, some transexuals, some tranvestites.  Warhol reintroduced the "drag queen" to a mainstream audience unlike anyone else.

But the first male Superstar was unquestionably Paul America. 

Other male performers would later be rolled out (like Joe Dallesandro) but it was Paul America who was used to break Factory ground.  And as is often the case, he was not the trail blazer who gained the glory.

Legend has it that it was Paul's occupancy at the Hotel America which sparked his renaming (just like in the old studio system).  Originally born Paul Johnson, America would quickly become the first gay Superstar with such Warhol classics as "My Hustler" (1965) and in assorted sequels which, for the most part, never saw the light of day. 

He appeared in a silent art film called "Harold Stevenson" with Edie Sedgwick and others... all lounging about on a couch, but his use was always somehow diminished.  He appeared in the documenary short "Superartist" (1967).  However more and more of Paul America ended up on the cutting room floor. He was not the flashy drag queen (a novelty of the time); he was a pretty good actor in a bad situation.

Never intending to be a one hit wonder, Paul appeared in the now classic "Ciao! Manhattan" (1972).  Rumors persist that he and Edie Sedgwick were crazy in love and I believe it to be true.  Like many of today's young people, Paul didn't label himself straight or gay, though certainly his male fan base kept "My Hustler" running in art houses for many a year.  He was beautiful to both the eye and to the camera.  One can certainly see a young Edie being smitten by the attentions of this very masculine, yet fragile figure.  It is said he intervened at a number of her early overdoses--

With Hollywood having nothing to do with him and his Factory pedigree not opening any doors, Paul did a stint in the army and later pestered the ever-stingy Warhol for more work.  But it was not be.

His one hit "My Hustler" typecast him in a real life role that he did not accept.  Paul America was not a hustler, though he certainly could have been if he had wanted... and he did not turn to porn.  He was a promising young actor.  He could have been the next smoldering James Dean... the next tightly wound Sal Mineo. 

By our modern measure, Paul America was the precursor to Heath Ledger-- adored by men and women alike... then gone.  Just a few short months after I met him, Paul was struck by a car and killed while walking home from his dentist's office in Ormond Beach, Florida.  He was 38 years old.  At the time however, his death was scarcely noted by the press.  And the legacy of Paul America, cult icon, passed into oblivion.

Sadly for years few even knew he was dead.  (I myself had tried to search him out, to no avail.)  Like Elvis, there were Paul America sightings from time to time.  Rumors of another film; a TV show.  In fact, he'd been dead for years.  It was only with the advent of the internet and a continually updated Wiki page (which for years implied he was still alive) that it became clear Paul had left long ago.  But by then most people had forgotten about this lost star, perhaps the most talented of Warhol's Factory system.

Today Paul America is a footnote to Warhol's vast legacy-- rather a vintage victim to fame, to time and to fate.  For Paul, his beauty didn't fade... it was cut short by a cruel twist of circumstances, not unlike the demise of Warhol himself in 1987.

Paul had his flaws... the rampant drug use and arrests, but he actually fared well in a decade of overdoses and suicides, especially being birthed in the Factory stable.  He was actually one of the few to survive that experience. 

I remember once prompting him to write about those times, but he brushed off the thought.  "They only want Warhol..." he said.  He was right about that.

But today when I close my eyes and dream back to those lazy afternoons, I can still see that matinee idol face and feel his gentle spirit-- He seemed happiest when someone simply cared about him.

Sound familiar?

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com

www.WhenDannyMetSally.com

Copyright WDMS 2012

Win or Lose, The Top 10 Vintage Games That Hollywood Will Ruin

By Danny Alias

As Tim Burton gradually works his way through the obliteration of our collective childhoods, perhaps its best to stop and ponder what's left (if anything) to cherish.  Vintage Games-- Board, Playing Card or otherwise filled our innocent yesterdays with hours of silly, mindless fun.

Who amongst us didn't shout out the words "You sunk my BATTLESHIP?" $209 million has been sunk into a Summer movie of same name that is more blockhead than blockbuster.  The question echoes:  "Who sunk $209 million into this probing alien extravaganza... and are they still taking phone calls from Hasbro?"

In this dicey game of reinventing memory, nothing is sacred.  Classics such as MONOPOLY and CANDYLAND have already been optioned, as if WALL STREET (#1 & #2) or SEX IN THE CITY (#1 & #2) didn't already fulfill are need to be greedy and/or diabetically shocked.

So the question remains: Can Hollywood ruin much more from your chaste childhood?  You bet your sweet tooth decay they can.  And the Top 10 Nominees for the Summer of 2012 are:

1. OLD MAID: MILFS GONE WILD.  Originally a hit in Victorian America, Kathy Bates turns up the hairdryer (and a vibrator or three) in this re-imagination of a card game classic.  The decks (I said "decks") are stacked against her from the start, but Oscar winner Bates has a trick or two up her gruffy, puffy sleeves.  Premise:  Inheriting the family's condom business late in life turns out to be a second coming for a woman who rarely came in first, if at all.  Also starring Jack Black has her nefarious brother and all of the Baldwin Brothers, except the far-right religious one.  Foreign Release Title: "OLD, BUT MADE."

2. CLUE TOO. Though initially a badly steered Tim Curry vehicle in 1985, this prequel flashes forward 30 years where all the reality stars from LOGO are reunited in one giant clusterf*ck of egos. Premise: Though none of them have a CLUE where their careers went since 2006, each must achieve a personal breakthrough that is simultaneously fashionable, yet disgusting.  Dr. Phil ("How's that workin' for ya?") McGraw unconvincingly plays himself as a most irritating life coach for those that don't have a life... which includes the entire zero star studded castoffs. 

3. MYSTERY DATE.  Optioned as a Drew Peterson slasher pic might he be acquitted of killing all of his wives AND the jury that released him... this project remains in limbo-- mostly because the police are still looking for limbs.  Premise: Snooki and Kim Kardashian make their Broadway debuts, except its on film which makes their  hair hurt just thinking about it.  Speaking of hair: Donald Trumps does a walk-on all by itself-- Perhaps the greatest appearance by a non-hairpiece ever to be combed-over!  It single-folically wins a Life Time Achievement Award by AquaNet and Drag Queens Everywhere (DQE).

4. UNCLE WIGGILY.  Pitched as a cross between "Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory" and "Boogie Nights," Johnny Depp cashes yet another $25 million paycheck and laughs all the way to the swank. Premise: Following the naughty adventures of Depp, now a highly sexed rabbit... he breeds indiscriminately with other players traveling between Uncle Wiggily's house of ill-repute and John Waters' Baltimore abode.  Says Women's Wear Daily: "Playing Dr. Possum has never before been defined in such explicit terms in this lubricant-supplied 3-D opus to barnyard hijinks."

5. CHUTES & LADDERS.  Nicholas Cage continues his downward spiral like a corkscrew noodle in this soon-to-be-career-ending cinematic orgy.  Retitled "Shoots, Then Laughs About It" this groiner is an all manly man action parody that is more homoerotic than an open casting call at John Travolta's hotel room.  Quite bluntly, it puts the massage back into misogyny. "Shoots" is purportedly as confusing, convoluted, self-indulgent and embarrassing as every Cage film since "Leaving Las Vegas"... which is probably the best review this dick flick will receive. Pauly Shore plays himself in a small cameo, pinned strategically to the cleavage of Sharon Stone.  Former President George W. Bush is brilliant as Stone's failing pilates instructor, Mister Accomplished.

6. OPERATION.  Chasity, Chaz, Charles, Chuck ("Ray Jay") Bono portrays a man so confident in his own skin that he fabricates that of another to create a really life-like penis.  Really!  Rounding out the cast is every actress who ever did a reading of "The Vagina Monologues" except Whoopi Goldberg because of her inability to keep a straight face while repeating the word "Kegel."  The good news?  The patient lives!  The bad?  Men are officially obsolete. 

7. TWISTER.  Not to be confused with any other weather related disaster film, this long overdue tribute to the late Chubby Checkers relaunches the career of Arsenio Hall in a fat suit.  Clay Aikens co-stars as Chubby's brother (just go with it) and does all the voice-over work.  Mr. Hall will win the Oscar for his heartbreaking performance and Clay will get a high heeled boot for the third time... which, of course, is the charm. 

8. THE GAME OF LIFE.  Disappointments abound in this Albert Brooks bio-pic of himself.  Depression, addiction, guilt, insomnia, gingivitis and bad lighting will hamper production.  Woody Allen will be called in to rework the script, fire Mr. Brooks, marry his wife and re-title the film "New Jersey Redoubt."   Mia Farrow co-stars as a knife wielding ex-wife, but only for the money.

9. RISK (and/or) SORRY.  Director Michael Moore turns away from the buffet and points his lens toward Wall Street once again in this riveting faux-documentary of the mortgage crisis.  Jamie Dimond of JP Morgan/Chase plays himself almost as convincingly as he's played everyone else.  Moore expounds for 90 minutes on what $3 billion dollars can buy, which is surprisingly little if you have a revolving account at Tiffany's, a fairly serious drug habit... or both.  Morgan Spurlock borrows the fat suit from Arsenio's "TWISTER" and stands-in for Michael Moore, saving him considerable time at Sundance's multiple concession stands.

10. SCRABBLE.  Believe it or not this flick was once pitched as "Words With Friends"-- as if anyone would play a game or see a movie with that title!  The original cast of the popular TV show "Friends" were assembled to play various characters, but conflict quickly ensued when all of the "A" list actors demanded to play vowels... and the "B" listers were relegated to playing consonants.  In the end only an "F" and a "U" were left to be played by David Schwimmer, strangely misspelling the word "catastrophe" in the snow with the help of co-star Mr. Bono.  Matt LeBlanc was aptly without comment.

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com

WhenDannyMetSally.com

Copyright WDMS 2012.

Crop Circles Simultaneously Reveal DNA Strand & Winning Lotto Numbers

By Danny Alias

In a startling find that has confounded both the brilliant and the ignorant, an English Crop Circle has heads… and balls… turning.

While scientists debate the relevance of this recent corny conflagration, others less educated are flocking to their local 7-Elevens & Quickie Marts to play the numbers designated by the descending balls.

For the first time in the history of crop circle research a double prediction has been made on a most perplexing level.  Located in an obscure part of the English countryside called “Abbey Normal-on-the-Spanx”,  the circle simultaneously details the DNA sequencing of Rupert Murdoch’s left testicle AND next week’s winning lotto numbers.

“It’s an incredible discovery!” says British physicist Sir Lord Buckingham of Fulton-Charlie Sheen.  “I’ve seen DNA strands before.  I’ve also pulled down a few numbers off the National Lottery… but never before have I seen the two combined.  It’s either the foretelling of the coming Apocalypse… or a great opportunity to make a buck.  Personally I’m betting on the latter but preparing for neither.  After all, I’m a scientist, damn it!”

But American experts see it differently-- Mostly because they go to the eye doctor as often as they go to the dentist, a fact that decays British relations and their affixed teeth.

Professor G. Whizzer-Guilt of the University of Phoenix recently cited:  “I can categorically state that the newly discovered English Crop Circles are as authentic as my degree from the University of Phoenix.  In fact, not only is my online degree as legitimate, I can also download my diploma and print copies of it at home.  I doubt the English can beat this level of integrity… even while wearing large snow shoes and a tracking device in a corn field of hoax!”

To date, no one has come forward to deny that the DNA sequencing is anything other than Rupert Murdoch’s naughty (and tiny) bits.   Concurrently, multiple wives have come forward to identify the withered sequence, usually while wearing gloves or poking at it with a rolled up pre-nup.

Murdoch's first wife, Lady McMuffin McMurdoch (of the M.C. Hamburglousters-On-Toast) testified in an unrelated sperm/egg paternity suit that the strand was, in fact, the shriveled strand of her late husband.  (Editor’s Note:  Rupert Murdoch IS NOT dead yet, but in the interest of internet accuracy, this article… and his first wife… are planning ahead.)

Back across the murky pond the controversy continues.   As 43 of the 50 American states have a lottery,  it is debatable in which State these numbered balls will drop.  This confounds true believers and those living with aluminum siding or wheels under their living rooms.

Said a local yokel from a decidedly red state:  “Do I believe in aliens?  Yup!  And that’s why we need a wall keeping the Canadians out!”

That attitude appears to be growing.  A recent USA/CNN/DNA/NRA poll of lottery players echoes the sentiment.   While only 2% of those surveyed believed in extra-terrestrials, 15% believed in the existence of extra testicles… while a shocking 85% believed these crop circles to be predicting winning lotto numbers.

Even more disturbing is that this adds up to 102%... which defies the odds of logic and the use of a simple calculator.  Like the upcoming Presidental election, there is a 5% margin for air… mostly coming out of unregulated PACS.

But the questions remain:  Are beings from another planet messing with the very structure of human DNA?

Or did Murdoch’s media empire phone-hack into the cosmos and piss off an intelligence far great than M.I.6?  (British CIA, for those without internet)

Are aliens accurately predicting winning lotto numbers to bring down the world economy on a scale not seen since the George W. Bush years?   Or is this just good luck gone bad?

The answers to these and other questions can be found in my new book: ANSWERS TO THESE & OTHER QUESTIONS…  Published by Questionable Press.

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com

www.WhenDannyMetSally.com

Copyright WDMS 2012

Reality Is To Television... What Fake Is To Vintage

By Danny Alias

Reality TV, an oxymoron if there ever was one, has discovered the antique/vintage world in its usual pushy, oversized way.

The Grand Daddy (or crusty Grandma) of them all is ANTIQUE ROADSHOW.  Other than a few bumps in the road with some questionable (and later indicted) experts, A.R. truly set the bar of quality vintage reality programming.   In its 20+ year history there were bound to be some less than accurate moments, but overall it is the gold standard to be beat.  And certainly Chubb Insurance has a way fatter because of it.

By all appearances PBS’s latest endeavor MARKET WARRIORS is a worthy spin-off.   Though more character driven the show still strives to present an accurate snapshot of the antique business… even given its game show component.   Much like the British hit BARGAIN HUNT, M.W. strikes a good balance between expert and shopper while still reflecting the bottom line interest:  Value.  It’s fascinating to see the range in prices between the various locales in which the show is shot… higher prices on the coasts, etc… the Midwest being a bargain hunter's dream.

In this vintage vein PAWN STARS also hits the mark.  Showcasing an established resale icon in Las Vegas, the show demonstrates that delicate balance between buyer and seller.   Though it sometimes feels that all the rarities of the planet somehow pass through their doors… (Spoiler alert: Next season, George Washington’s second set of false teeth)…  P.S. is a draw not only to sellers anxious to find a buyer (and get on TV), but to viewers as well.   Character-driven personalities range from antique expert/store co-owner Rick Harrison to Chumlee, a persona found at a John Waters’ casting call.   The show is an addiction as item/story after item/story move through the store/show with the predictability of the sun following the moon.  Only provenance and price bickering break the cycle, but those are often the best moments of the show.

Recently however Reality Television has gone on a junk food diet of vintage gluttony.  Hit or miss, truth or dare, real or fake, false or falsies… the latest offerings are too numerous to mention, but let’s review just for fun:

AMERICAN PICKERS.  This is love or hate on a Kim Kardashian level—and the A.P. stars didn’t even have to make a porno tape… just an audition tape… which has spun off into great success.  Personally I’ve seen enough barns of rusted signage to last me a tetanus shot or three, but perhaps America needs to get this out of their bloodstream.  My favorite part of the show is the all-too-often repeated scene of the picker-husbands blaming their overly tattooed wives for sending them on a bad house call. To me this stretches the credulity of reality.  Just once I’d like to see an antique sad iron make a happy swipe at their all too sincere whining.

HOARDERS.  Do viewers watch this tear jerker for its collectible angle?  Yes, for that and the dirty diapers of the toilet-deprived stars.  But the only thing better than a dozen teddy bears… are 500 teddy bears infested with lice, mice and a slice of reality.   We all know of people like this… perhaps not as spectacularly afflicted… but this show could routinely be cast from your Facebook friends alone.  Yes, it’s a disease and its all so sad and terrible… but we just happen to have a hoarding/collecting/social worker at hand… so we’re not exploiting them, right?   We’re here to help… and we’ve brought boxes!   Oh, did we mention the sister you hate is right outside this door with a shit-load of relative guilt to drop on you?  Surprise!!!   Now can we throw out those Beanie Babies?

STORAGE WARS, AUCTION HUNTERS, LOCKER BULLIES, etc.   Perhaps you’ve also heard through the vintage grapevine (which has produced an excellent Merlo I must confess)… that some of these shows are less than, um, how do we say this… accurate?  Honest?  Legit?  Let me put it this way:  Do you remember the movie “Quiz Show?”  I doubt there’ll ever be a Congressional investigation into shows such as this… who is being harmed here, right?   However I understand that the hardcore fans of some of these shows actually watch BECAUSE they’re fixed— that spotting the errors/goofs/mistakes are all part of the fun.   It’s like the old adage:  “Behind the fake tinsel is the real tinsel“  Except we’re talking storage lockers.  And they've been, um, fluffed…

* * *

Now where is this all headed?  I shudder to think… especially if resale shudders are involved.   However to save future cable concept creators all the effort in thinking up a new idea or two (or four), let me save them the migraine headache and propose:

CLOSET CASES. Well known figures from both Republican & Democratic party compete in a “real life” cat fight as their collections (see fetishes) are “outed” in a thorough closet cleaning.   Susie Orman hosts, shaming contestants on the wasteful spending in the resale value of latex, rubber, vinyl (not records, unless show tunes) and things that go bump with a nightstick.   The winner is chosen by the (in)sincerity of their spouses that stand beside them…  and by the faces that they make.

DON’T LOOK IN MY BASEMENT. As the title implies this show is not for the faint or heart, unless you’re Dick Cheney and you have all those spares.  Contestants are chosen randomly by ambushing video crews who seek out truly mediocre yard sales.  A rotating cast of ex-Project Runway contestants host… ridiculing the ever-descending taste levels of the basements at hand… or boot.  Gloves sold separately.

CATASTROPHES IN THE ATTIC. The spin-off of “Basement”… ATTIC picks up where the stairs leave off… upstairs, that is, which badly need to be vacuumed.   Surprising attic finds include: 1) An Armenian Juggling Troupe; 2) All the birds that ever appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic film of same name; 3) A two-headed cousin that you only heard about in annual Christmas letters.  (“Donnie/Ronnie gets better every day… mostly.”)  The Worst Attic is awarded their own personal tornado, which tears off the top floor with striking precision.  As all reality shows are notoriously cheap, ATTIC is hosted by an adorable Cairn Terrier by the name of Toto.  And trust me, contestants don’t want to come in #2 with Toto around.

I’LL GIVE YOU A DOLLAR FOR IT! Cameras follow the daily antics of (perhaps) America’s cheapest man… Ivan Notkidding.  Whether attending a trendy antique show, an upscale estate sale, a rural flea market or just barging into your home unannounced, Ivan’s standing offer for items of value is $1.00.  Watch him attempt to buy a valuable Stickley desk for $1.00… and then be escorted out by security.  See him try to score an original Eames Rocker (yes, for $1.00)… and watch the shocks fly when police arrive.  Surprisingly “I’ll Give You A Dollar For It” becomes as ubiquitous a phrase as “Whatcha talkin’ about, Willis”… and just as unfunny.  However on the rare occasion when a seller actually accepts Ivan’s $1.00 offer, he always pays in pennies.   Highlights of the show routinely include Ivan getting the crap beat out of him… often by cane wielding AARP members… because they’re old, bitter and tired of people like Ivan.

By Danny Alias.  Copyright 2012 WDMS

AliasDanny@Rocketmail.com

www.WhenDannyMetSally.com