Maybe Pacifica stations could get some deal with the Onion. They're young and funny. For instance:
Judge Orders God To Break Up Into Smaller Dieties WASHINGTON, DC—Calling the theological giant's stranglehold on the religion industry "blatantly anti-competitive," a U.S. district judge ruled Monday that God is in violation of anti-monopoly laws and ordered Him to be broken up into several less powerful deities. http://www.theonion.com/onion3803/judge_orders_god.html
Films that Time Forgot: By Nathin Rabin Red The Half Breed (1970) Director: Gilles Carle As Cher famously noted in song, life can be hard for people of combined Caucasian and Native American descent. That's certainly true for Daniel Pilon's character in Red The Half Breed; he's a "jazzy yellow" Camaro-driving half-Indian outlaw who feels uncomfortable both in white society and among Native Americans. Filled with rage, he expresses his disdain for bourgeois conformity by dumping a tray of fast food on a pair of squares, speeding out of a gas station without paying for gas, and receiving oral sex while driving. Pilon's white half-sister (Fernande Giroux) shares her semi-sibling's disdain for the empty trappings of consumer society, complaining at length about how her shiny new home is "too modern, too chic" before stating calmly, "The Frigidaire looks so intelligent." Driven mad by the frightening intellect of her refrigerator, as well as the lesser-but-still-formidable brainpower of several minor appliances, Giroux drunkenly crashes Pilon's jazzy yellow Camaro. Pilon, meanwhile, remains alienated from mainstream society and his white family, and when the troubled Giroux tries to bond with Pilon's stoic Native American mother, Pilon coolly admonishes his dazed half-sister to leave, then yells, "Tell your husband that the Camaro swings like 'Wow'!" Alas, such insouciance on the part of a sassy chop-shop proprietor cannot go unpunished, and when Giroux turns up dead and foul play is suspected, it isn't long before a drunken posse, made up almost entirely of members of Pilon and Giroux's white family, begins pursuing him. Desperate to find the real killers, Pilon heads for Native American country, where he fails to bond with his kinfolk during a series of sitting-and-waiting scenes sure to bore viewers of all races, creeds, and colors. Tired of his firewater-loving chums, Pilon heads into town to assassinate the real killer during a car show. Tragically, a sniper's bullet cuts down Pilon instead, while a pair of bikini-clad go-go dancers look on in horror.
Walk To Remember, A reviewed by Scott Tobias If there's one basic lesson reinforced by A Walk To Remember, a noxiously wholesome vehicle for second-tier teen pop star Mandy Moore, it's that film is an inherently sinful medium, driven by voyeurism, lust, and violently clashing emotions. Christian piety may have its place in cinema, but generally only when the forces of righteousness, like Lillian Gish in The Night Of The Hunter or Emily Watson in Breaking The Waves, are countered equally by the forces of evil. Based on the Nicholas Sparks novel, A Walk To Remember is basically a prim, desexualized Carrie, told from the prom date's perspective and featuring Peter Coyote in the Piper Laurie role. With her face frozen by the creepy serenity of the saved, Moore stars as a virginal choirgirl who wears frumpy sweaters and floor-length patterned skirts, drives an Oldsmobile, and still drinks out of juice boxes. Ostracized by her peers, she spots a redeemable soul in Shane West, a sullen classmate who hangs out with The Wrong Crowd, in this case a group of hard-partying popular kids that includes the only black person in town and two young harlots with exposed midriffs. As punishment for participating in a gang initiation that lands another teen in the hospital, West gets assigned the lead role in a school musical opposite Moore, who transforms into a beautiful songstress in time for opening night. From there, she romances the newly reformed West over the objections of her father the reverend (Coyote). But he has no reason to worry: Having successfully neutralized both of their raging hormones, Moore is in complete control, so much so that the entire universe bends to her will. Of course, such an ethereal creature could never submit to pleasures of the flesh, so the plot coughs up one spectacularly lame excuse for getting out of sex. Director Adam Shankman (The Wedding Planner) updates Sparks' novel from 1958 to the present, but outside of the synergistic music cues and modern automobiles, the setting is an anachronism, presenting small-town life as it once existed in Joshua Logan's Picnic. (What teen today would pack two separate blankets for stargazing?) Like TV's Seventh Heaven, another show about God from AOL-Time Warner, A Walk To Remember would be perfectly harmless were it not so blithely unaware of its racial and sexual politics. With the angelic Moore dictating its whitewashed world, the film implies a position of moral authority that clouds the other characters in shame. At the lowest point, West's black friend brings over a copy of Missy Elliott's "Get Ur Freak On"; the hero immediately dismisses it as "Soul Train" and pops in a borrowed Jars Of Clay CD. Is this really the path to righteousness?