“See Them Burn! Hear Them Scream!”
The Most Sickening TV Show in History

This show tops and crowns all the insults and lies that the abject, scummy, filthy corporate media heaps on the American mind—virtually unchallenged and protected by the rights of sacred property. NBC, like its brethren, is involved in the obscene commercialization of war as entertainment, and in the sneaky peddling of heightened jingoism in a nation constantly at war and already crammed with pseudo heroic nonsense and military fetishization. Apparently, for prostitutes like Mark Burnett, king of cheap reality television, anything, including blood and guts can be turned into profit.—The Editors

by JOHN ESKOW
Surely we have reached some hideous moral low—if only a temporary one—when a TV “reality” show like NBC’s “Stars Earn Stripes” can reduce the blood-soaked, brain-spattered canvas of war to a feel-good athletic competition between washed-up actors, ex-jocks, and Todd Palin.

The show–which features skier Picabo Street, actor Dean Cain, and a host of other musclebound nonentities—premiered last night. Before it even aired, it was reviled by Desmond Tutu and other bishops, which actually got me curious enough to tune in: I mean, what other cheesy reality show has been slammed by a Nobel Prize winner?

It was hosted by Wesley Clark—to his eternal shame.  After this debacle, I would imagine that he is no longer Michael Moore’s choice for President.

War’s had a grip on me recently, for two reasons.  For one, I’m amazed by liberals’ silence about the ongoing slaughter conducted by their own favorite Nobel Peace Prize winner, Barack Obama.  For another, this month marks the 150th anniversary of the first Battle of Richmond, in which my great-grandfather and namesake was grievously wounded and left for dead.

My full name is John Temple Eskow, and my forebear–Indiana farmer John Temple–was just one of 4,000 Union casualties in the battle, which is considered one of the biggest Confederate routs of the war. As it happens, I still possess my great-grandfather’s Union Army dogtags, his discharge papers, even the misshapen bullet that a battlefield medic dug out of his side.  I keep these heirlooms of pain in a wooden cabinet near the TV, so that each time I looked up to watch Nick Lachey or Laila Ali pretending to be real-deal American soldiers–look at us jump from a helicopter!  look at us wriggle in mud!–the tokens of my ancestor’s suffering were also in view.

Ignored by all the major media—what else could you expect from the plutocracy’s propaganda system?

John Temple, a young Indiana farmer, was so badly wounded that his regiment-mates were sure he’d die.  In flight from the Confederates, they were forced to leave him alone in an abandoned one-room schoolhouse, delerious and hemmoraging.  After a full day, he was overheard moaning by some other retreating troops; they carried him to a tributary of the Ohio River and hid him among bales of hay on a small barge floating north.

Several weeks later, when he finally staggered back to the farmhouse door in Crawfordsville, he’d become so gaunt, and looked so much older, that his wife had no idea who he was.

But gee, Laila Ali looks cute blowing up an empty guardhouse!

The moron Todd Palin is a fitting participant in this revolting excrescence.

John Temple’s son–my grandfather, also named John–was a doughboy in World War I, and his lungs were scarred by mustard gas, so that every single breath he took, for eighty more years, tasted of death.

Peerless slimeball Mark Burnett, peddler of shameless jingoism, and suitable member of the mainstream entertainment pantheon.

And his son, also named John Temple–the one who taught my mother about art and poetry–wanted to defy family tradition by becoming a conscientious objector in World War II, volunteering instead to drive an ambulance on the battlefield.  But he relented under my grandfather’s pressure, and became an Army pilot.  His plane was sabotaged in an airfield in the Phillipines, and crashed in the ocean shortly after takeoff.  His body was never recovered;  my mother’s heart never recovered, either.  His personal effects were not returned by the Army until 1964.  When they arrived, my mother couldn’t bear to open the trunk; she asked me to do it instead.  Inside the weatherbeaten trunk was his diary, and in the diary I followed the entries for 1944 as he wrote about his growing infatuation with a young Filipino girl on the base…and how he was tentatively, longingly, hoping to make love to her.  And then I realized that he was still a virgin. I tried to read on, past this aching expression of young romance, but there were only empty blue pages…I had read up to the night before his death.

But look!  Dean Cain is shooting at a slowly-moving target!

One of the “technical advisors” on the show tries to fake aw-shucks modesty as he describes himself as “the sniper with the most confirmed kills” in US military history.  Someone should tell him that one day he may yearn to surrender that title.  Because even the greatest war hero in my family–my uncle James Temple, who received medals and acclaim for safely landing a bomber full of explosives with his landing-gear locked–spent his last years tormented by constant nightmares.  “I see the Japanese soldiers–and just regular people–running on the hills under my plane…I drop the explosives on them…I see them burn..I hear their screams.”

But Wesley Clark tells the celebrities: great job!

John Eskow is a writer and musician. He wrote or co-wrote the movies Air America, The Mask of Zorro, and Pink Cadillac, as well as the novel Smokestack Lightning. He can be reached at: johneskow@yahoo.com

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