With Martha Stewart behind bars, I thought for a moment that it might be a good opportunity to launch Jem Casey Living Omnimedia, but I see now that it would never work. I’m not exactly clueless, but my tastemaking skills are, well, suspect. Everyone already likes what I like. I’m not talking about motorcycle jackets and Radiohead, I don’t even like those things anymore. I’m talking about brick houses on dead-ends, I’m talking about four-wheel drive, I’m talking about charming Scottish people. I’m talking about fine woodwork and artisan cheese. I’m talking about babies. Micro-brews. Everybody likes this stuff now, and I’d like to know why.
There was a time when a person had his preferences, and they were wildly unique. There was no mainstream. No one wanted to own a Pacific island who didn’t already own one, and the going rate was reasonable. There was a handful of beery old men who couldn’t find anything better to do than go fishing. They were burdened with lakes clotted by bass, walleyes, and muskellunge.
Now that I wish to go fishing, all the best species are on the verge of extinction. There is hardly room to dip an oar into the boat-choked lakes. Now that I wish to buy a Pacific island, the pickings are slim, and they are priced right out of my range.
In the old days, a person could be knighted and could own an estate with a gothic castle. A person could occupy himself with hunting foxes and making social calls. A person could drink claret, for example. I wanted to be that person, but now I cannot.
Reality TV? I should feel vindicated, but I feel ripped off. For years I’ve been saying how much I would enjoy seeing celebrities put in uncomfortable or embarrassing situations on unscripted television programs. I am pretty sure I was the only one who fantasized about six Miss America contestants competing in bikinis to eat a thermos of fish guts. If anyone had asked me what I’d do with my own TV network, I’d have said recreate Lord of the Flies on a desert island with real people competing for a million dollars in a kind of psychological chess game of secret alliances and obstacle courses. Now everybody says that!
And another thing: My longstanding disgust with small dogs. As the popularity of toy poodles, schnauzers, and Chihuahuas increased, my distaste sharpened. Give me a Black Lab or a Saint Bernard any day of the week. So what breed wins best of show at this year’s Westminster Kennel Club? A Newfoundland, for God’s sake—not my favorite, but a damn big dog.
All of a sudden everybody’s yakking about Mars. I knew about Mars a long time ago. Months ago, I said, “Why can’t our administration come up with a credible intergalactic diversion from pressing domestic and international issues, the way JFK did? Why are we still operating on the outdated platform of the space shuttle, when new worlds await?” And then they go and do it! I swear, they have bugged my home, or they are reading my email.
Someone has to fly all over the world and stay in all the best hotels and motels. Someone has to cover the Tour de France for the New York Times. If there is a waiting list of people who will get to do this, it is very long and I am near the bottom. My position on it will not carry over into the next two or three lifetimes or however long it would take for me to get “the call.”
Even reincarnation offers no hope. Being born has gotten tremendously popular. The Hindus have admitted that new souls are being minted like there is no tomorrow. Life itself is suffering from strong inflationary pressures, I’m afraid.
This is a personal statement from Jem Casey. It is not issued by or on behalf of Jem Casey Living Omnimedia, Inc.
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