This is a simple column by a complex
Dumb-asses need not apply.
If you flatter yourself to be a bright spot in the universe
and aren't offended by "psychotic breaks," welcome.
If you're a little frightened, well, all the better.
We kinda like you like that... with hot sauce.
“cancer as aphrodisiac”
Much has been made
against GH’s decision to return Emily recast and stricken with breast
cancer, just like her deceased mother Paige.
When TPTB turned a socially relevant storyline into a Harlequin Romanced
triangle involving a conceited, self-centered, shallow twit and two
handsome, charming suitors in their prime of horny manhood, the bullshit
figuratively hit the fans.
[Let me amend the Harlequin Romance reference, this genre of writers do a
lot better than GH’s smut-smitten light-weights. How about poor man’s soft
After two mentions of nausea spells, exploiting the guest appearances of
real-life, 30-something breast cancer survivors in a
made-for-after-school-movie PSA cheat sheet of a group therapy session,
and a close call leaving Emily nearly comatose for about, oh, one episode,
the cancer was dropped in favor of some hot and heavy petting and making
out, scheduled to climax on Halloween when Emily chooses Nikolas to be her
one, true soul mate.
Thanks to cancer. Cancer!
During the week of October 20th, I almost thoroughly enjoyed GH as never
before. Luke, Skye and then Coleman and A.J. enlivened the “Dead Man’s
Hand” intrigue with their adult banter and sitcom-perfect timing. Sonny
completely sold me on a withering, pathetic has-been giving up before the
battle’s through and latching onto the edge of auto-pilot insanity, as
Carly gives in to complete hysterical panic before Alcazar storms in
begging for her love.
... Until Monica called Emily in to give her the miraculous news of her
cancer remission. Remission!
As an afterthought (let’s face it, nobody was paying attention to the
cancer anymore, not with Nikolas tongue-driving her in the elevator),
Emily had just gone on another series of chemo treatments, a new one, her
third, without suffering hair loss, nausea, weakness, diarrhea and
assorted other side effects everybody I have ever known and know to this
day have had to suffer through. In fact, just the other week, Emily was
marveling over how great and lucky she felt at not reacting negatively at
all to this third treatment, with a doctor to accentuate her great luck.
Conveniently, Emily called her two suitors, Nikolas and Zander, over to
the hospital immediately, through a nasty debilitating storm (praise the
Lord for SUVs!), to tell them the miraculous news, with the actress’s
usual hemming, hawing, “Um”ing and constipating. Not moments before, she’d
called off any possible burgeoning relationship with either of them, after
being fed up with their constant feuding over winning her love, citing
cancer as a more important, more consuming issue she had to focus all her
I watched her blinking fast, beaming her perfectly unbesmirched beauty
upon the desperately in-love men who would have cut their dicks off for
her hand in marriage, long, cascading brown hair with gold highlights,
creamy moonbeam complexion and slim, toned, girlish figure intact, the
epitome of appropriately desirable fashion statement, this supposed breast
cancer survivor picked from the cast to responsibly portray a disease’s
disastrous effects on real victims everywhere.
I wanted to throw up.
I thought of my mother, the wife of my husband’s first cousin, my mother’s
best friend in the ‘70s, my online friend Honeycat, and the hundreds of
other real-life cancer survivors and victims who weren’t as lucky as
Emily, who never received a miraculous remission statement—or the undying,
sensually alluring seductions of two studly young men. I thought of
myself, pushing 40, most likely a carrier from my mother, praying to God
that the shaky nine or 10 months nursing my son would help protect me from
the genetic inevitability and provide for me an Emily-esque miracle.
And then, I thought of the reprehensible, thoughtless irresponsibility on
the part of TPTB for allowing such a lie (of a joke of an excuse for three
youth-demo darlings to simulate seduction, angst and sexual healing) to
play out on millions of television screens for millions of more
susceptible and younger women out there, who don’t and can’t know any
[Don’t laugh, some impressionable girls in high school have begun eating
again after witnessing their soap heroines Courtney and Carly eating at
These women will now assume that getting cancer is either easy as pie or
is a surefire way to attract two very good-looking, marriage-minded guys,
one of ‘em preferably rich. Or both. With a few sickos actually wishing
cancer could be passed on the same as a cold virus.
Many of them will contract some form of cancer and innocently believe
they’ll be like Emily, enough of the initial nausea as to appear
damsel-in-distress attractive to the opposite sex, but not enough to
discourage the rising, unquenchable libido and ability to remain very much
sexually active, very much aesthetically shallow, very much invested in
keeping up the dating scene.
They won’t flinch when their doctors talk about chemo and radiation and
negative probabilities, or the fact that an overriding element to earning
a remission (that’s right, earning) involves throwing 500 billion percent
solely into fighting the disease and believing they will defeat the
disease in the long run, not being distracted by a nice piece of ass.
And of course, when reality bites their romanticized version of cancer,
they’ll suffer double.
To treat such a serious subject as breast cancer in one so young and so
vibrant like so much confetti concoction for the MTV set, is to do such an
unforgivable disservice to humanity. It’s just plain ugly, immoral and
In the future, TPTB of soaps, especially of GH, better rethink any attempt
to delve into the disease of the week in hopes of attracting viewers with
the lowest common denominator of the easy way onto enticing, sexy,
relevant love connections. If they, as well as countless fans, disapprove
of realistically depicting social issues as downers, for fear of turning
off, depressing and repulsing the audience, then just don’t bother.
Stick with action-adventures, mysteries, slapstick and far-fetched
storylines about mobsters who benevolently rule a small town against a
corrupt police department, all centered around the next babe magnet
jonesing for a little poontang, accentuated by the costume design stylings
of David Zyla, from now-defunct PC.