Proxy Time

I watched a couple of progs on the televis tonight.

About art fakery (thanks Orson) and the illiterate corrupt-ness of Wildenstein - a Monet verification organisation (and disgrace of the US), a bit of Penn & Teller (US brilliance, thanks boys) and a bit of BBC UK news which reflected ideas I'd formed elsewhere about the stupidity of methadone prescription.
Eclectic enough?
I don't think so - it's all the same childish roundabout.

One of my great heroes - DB - owns no television.
I understand his argument that TV is a substitute for real experience. Yet, how he justifies being unbearably moved by recorded music, I have no idea. Let Haydn's music die with Haydn, I say.

But that surrogate thing? I'm sorry. I just don't get that. It's an arrogance. That TV can teach you nothing. Maybe a celebrity can have all those so-called real experiences instead of the rest of our 'faximiles'. Good for them.
But I think they may get overtired rather quickly and need a regular colonic. Sometimes an experience is better by proxy. And who are they to know real experience? Certainly no more (or less) than the rest of us.

Now, where were we?

Art informs life, and TV is the premium mirror of our lifetime.

So as of tonight, I'll give you a choice.

You can discover a $30 million Monet in your attic that you picked up a couple of years ago at a bric-a-brac stall.

Or.

You can inspire and provoke one heroin addict to take the right hand fork (please tell me, does heroin actually have 2 'e's or not?).
One nudge to a different path.
A new cascade.

You have 5 seconds.


I know which I'd pick.