#18: adventures in Gossip Girl

In today’s exciting debut of a random column idea that may never be followed up, we start in the middle of season two of the rich-kids-of-NYC-and-not-the-OC-doing-dramatic-shit-or-whatever, and shit is hitting the fan. For those of you who don’t know, Gossip Girl is a teen drama that ran on the CW, I think, for I have no idea how many seasons and is now on Netflix and G. enjoys watching it, which means I watch it, which means I spend way too much time thinking about the purpose of the show, beyond, of course, showing people in their twenties playing teenagers who, by way of family or something, have more money than some small countries or even some middle-sized countries.

Something I don’t understand: shows about poor people are always comedies; rich people can go either way, but apparently poor folks don’t have drama. While I will not support this with a thorough researched proof of such a general statement, I will say Gossip Girl = millionaires cavorting in dramatic fashion, and Raising Hope = poor ass folks who make us laugh. Proof, check, and mate.

I can’t finish this. They just had the one high school senior writer douchebag nonchalantly mention he had a story accepted by the Paris Review, and wires in my brain just fried. Oh, and his little sister is apparently a design superstar gone homeless because, like, dads are so overbearing when it comes to making clothes for a living at 15. Everyone is a superstar! See, kids, the GOP has it right: cash money = better human, as long as you’re white, or maybe, just maybe now, Hispanic. We’re getting political.

I understand that television operates on a heightened emotional scale, that we, as viewers, don’t want to invest our sitting time in something that merely reminds us of our every day lives; what would be the point? If that’s what I wanted, I would just film one of my days, then put it on repeat on the tv. The excitement and ratings for such a thing would most likely be lacking. However, I find something about the obvious class warfare in this show to be unsettling, probably on a purely politically correct reasoning. I have a hard time believing watching television informs who I am, and, yet, it clearly does. This gets pointed out to me quite often on the website Cracked. What that means is, when I watch rich people assume a life of jet-setting dramatic good times, I assume that my life would be one of Europe luxury train rides and St. Bart’s golf courses and yachts and boat shoes and slick-as-hell pastel shirt, tie, and v-neck sweater outfits [okay, I can’t make fun of the last one. There are very few of Chuck Bass’ outfits I wouldn’t willingly wear]. Oh, sidenote: the guy from the Princess Bride who always says “inconceivable” all the time just made an appearance as somebody’s mom’s boyfriend. This caused much chagrin. Ugliness is not tolerated in the world of money.

Oh, and now senior superstar writer is going to write for New York Magazine because, um, he’s from Brooklyn, man, and the kid has all that talent to go with those cheek bones. Where was I? Oh, right, tv’s influence on my ability to actually know the world around me: I will never be able to be objective.

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