Yes, God Bless America—but sometimes things can hit a little too close to home

 

I hate my neighbors.  The constant cacophony of stupidity that pours from their apartment is soul-crushing.

It doesn’t matter how politely I ask them to practice some common courtesy. They’re incapable of comprehending that their actions affect other people.

They have a complete lack of consideration for anyone else, and an overly developed sense of entitlement.

They have no decency, no concern, no shame. They do not care that I suffer from migraines and insomnia.

They do not care that I have to go to work. Or that I want to kill them.  I know it’s not normal that I want to kill them.  But I also know that I am no longer normal.

Okay, those were not my words—but they might as well have been, as people who read this blog must know by now.  Earlier today I watched “God Bless America”, a very black dramedy written & directed by Bobcat Goldthwaite—and it’s not like I had some great epiphany or anything, but here I am, sitting on my couch hours later & I can’t stop thinking about that film.

It opens with a fiftysomething man (Joel Murray, brother of Bill Murray) in bed, staring at the ceiling while listening to his neighbors loud noises from the apartment next door.  Those are his thoughts up there, and he fantasizes about going over there with a shotgun and inflicting some serious damage.   (Brother, I feel your pain!)  

Instead he gets up and turns on his tv, flipping through channel after channel of reality show dreck: the Kardashians, the Real Housewives of Wherever (hurling obscene things at one another), and a trio of judges laughing at a chubby, talentless contestant on American Idol.  He’s tired… and disgusted.

The following morning after arriving at work, Frank has this wonderful exchange with his coworker:

Soon after, he’s fired.  “Frank why did you access Karen’s personnel file?”  “Well, when she was out sick, I wanted to send her some flowers.  I needed her address for the delivery.”  His boss tells him  “She considered it an invasion of privacy and we have to let you go.”  While on his way home, Frank calls his ex-wife to talk to his 8 year old daughter, but she won’t come to the phone; she’s in the throes of a fit because her mother bought her a Blackberry and the kid wanted an iphone.  Can it get any worse?

His doctor calls him:  bad news Frank, you have an inoperable brain tumor. 

Later that night, he decides to put himself out of his misery.  And then he sees it:  a teenage girl screaming at her parents (for buying her the wrong car) on MTV’s “My Super Sweet 16”.   Frank puts the gun down.  Oh he still plans to kill himself… but he’s going to kill that obnoxious teen on MTV first.

I don’t want to give away the rest of this (violent but well scripted) movie, let’s just say he meets a psychotic named Roxy who believes in his cause.  “Let’s kill the country music fans!  The people who give each other high fives!  People who say they’re stoked!” 

Frank tells her no, he doesn’t want to shoot someone simply because they do unlikeable things; he just wants to kill the mean ones.  

I was surprised by how much I identified with this character (but the last thing I want to do is shoot anybody, honestly).  Yes I’m disgusted with most of the reality crap on tv today, and garbage like TMZ & Howard Stern turn my stomach too.  But let’s face facts, this kind of exploitation has always been around in some shape or form, and always will be. 

(Still, I confess to feeling a small degree of satisfaction when those religious nuts with their neon colored “GOD HATES FAGS” signs run for cover from Frank’s gunfire!)

Anyway, I suppose one can always turn off their radio or tv or website.  Too bad you can’t do the same with your neighbors.