It’s Friday night, and after a long, hard week, I’m relaxing in front of the tube. Only it’s not so relaxing, because there’s nothing much on worth watching. And when I finally did find a decent show — a re-run of CSI I hadn’t seen on SpikeTV — it was mysteriously preempted in a most unexpected way. With about ten minutes left in the episode, SpikeTV suddenly became the TV Guide Network. We emerged from a commercial break not to the crack crime-solving team of Grissom, Brass, and that maddeningly distracting gap between Jorga Fox’ front teeth. Instead, we got two teeny-bopping ‘Whatever!‘ chicks prattling about American Idol. If that’s not the ‘anti-CSI’, then it’s damned fricking close.
“I guarantee you that if two chatty blondes got that much air time together on the real SpikeTV, they wouldn’t be talking about the latest Simon Cowell diatribe.”
I’m not sure how exactly the channel stooped so far so quickly. The TiVo still thinks it’s the SpikeTV channel. DirecTV seems to believe it’s SpikeTV. But no. I guarantee you that if two chatty blondes got that much air time together on the real SpikeTV, they wouldn’t be talking about the latest Simon Cowell diatribe. They’d be wearing bikinis, and possibly wrestling in a tub full of some sort of gelatin-based dessert product. Probably, there’d be midgets involved somehow, too. Just a hunch.
At any rate, there’s nothing on now. Which is disappointing, but it gives me a chance to consider the sort of show that would grab my channel-surfing attention. Something different, something interesting, something compelling with a catchy name and a hint of whimsy. Something like… well, like one of these shows, for instance:
From the FOX Network, a fresh new sitcom featuring the trials and tribulations of a geeky, awkward middle child who also just happens to be one of rock’s premeire virtuoso guitarists. Come for the dysfunction, stay for the seven-minute solos. It’s everyone’s favorite Yngwie on: Malmstein in the Middle.
A&E offers a glimpse into the life of a rough, tough character in sunny Hawaii. He patrols paradise, tracking and searching rascally varmints while he dispenses advice borne from a hard life turned around. You certainly don’t want to be a bail-jumping rodent on his watch, or you’ll face the wrath of Dog the Bunny Hunter.
Nickelodeon gets in the game, with a charming animated series about a plucky little girl immersed in the exciting world of international trade. She’ll entertain, sure — but she’ll also teach us all about tariffs, NAFTA, and politically-motivated embargoes. Gather the kids for duty-free fun with Dora the Exporter.
NBC chimes in with the next generation of game show. Watch as everyday guys and gals vie against luck and the shadowy, mysterious ‘Canner’ for the chance to win one million pickles. Sponsored by Vlasic and hosted by an elderly stork, check your local listings — or the pantry — for: Dill or No Dill.
On Food Network, a faboo new cooking show featuring Ellen Degeneres and Queer Eye‘s Ted Allen. With her dry wit and his dry spices, they’re a perfect match. Melissa Etheridge leads the in-studio band, and juliennes veggies during commercial breaks. We’ll call this show: Now We’re Cooking With Gays!
I think that’s plenty enough. A few episodes of those gems’d fill up the old TiVo. Who’s got a network exec on speed dial, eh? Hook me up here.
Permalink | 4 CommentsIf my wife ever divorces me, it’ll be because of soap. Or more precisely, the lack thereof.
And just to get it out of the way now, I don’t mean that in a ‘he doesn’t use soap; I’m trapped in a smelly marriage!‘ kind of way.
Any filthiness I have is all in my head. Otherwise, I’m squeaky clean. Honest. I even floss my toes.
“Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t stuffed a pillowcase full of Ivory Spring and beaten me with it by now.”
Besides, not bathing would be a Big Thing. Nobody ever gets divorced over Big Things, because you can’t hide Big Things coming into a relationship. By the time the nuptials roll around, both parties know all about the Big Things — he has a gambling problem, maybe, or she’s a compulsive shopper. Maybe he’s homeless and sings ‘Oklahoma‘ during sex, and she’s an ex-con turned Jehovah’s Witness. She’s got three nipples and a vestigial tail, and the phrase, ‘can you hear me now?’ sends him into an uncontrollable murderous rage. Now there’s a lovely couple. I always wondered when those crazy kids would get together.
The point is, all the Big Thing baggage gets handled early on. Or it doesn’t, and ‘early on’ is all there is before the messy breakup. But once you’ve been married for a while, you’ve been coping with Big Things for so long, it’s become second nature.
(For the record, my wife doesn’t have any Big Things for me to deal with. Trust me, I looked.
Unless you count not letting me wear jeans to weddings and fancy restaurants. But somehow, I think that’s another one of my Big Things, rather than hers.
Or so she tells me.)
So, all that’s left are the Little Things, those daily annoyances and quirks and borderline personality disorders that drive your partner to consider renting a wood chipper and going all Fargo on your ass. That’s where my Little Thing with the soap comes in.
I have a mental block involving soap in the shower. When I use the last of the soap, I fail — consistently, predictably, and infallibly — to replace said soap. In the shower, I make a mental note: ‘Replace the soap’. Three minutes later, it’s gone. Completely. Shut the water off — nothing. Towel myself down — still forgotten. Shave, dress, brush my teeth — ‘I have no recollection of that mental note, Senator.’ It’s simply gone.
Which leaves my wife — my poor, long-suffering wife — to hop into the shower the next morning, soak under the water for a bit… and then climb back out, drippy and annoyed, to find a bar of damned soap. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t stuffed a pillowcase full of Ivory Spring and beaten me with it by now. It’s a hell of a way to die, but at least I’d be fragrant at the funeral.
For some reason, I can’t shake this soapy monkey off my back. The missus and I have had other Little Things, and they’ve all been fixed. We’ve both been guilty of not replacing an empty toilet paper roll. For a while, she refused to follow proper ice tray filling protocol. And once — once! — I left the toilet seat up. That was many years ao. I still have the flashbacks.
Probably, there are other Little Things I’m forgetting. I’m sure forgetting the soap can’t be my only annoying habit. But it’s the one that’s lasted the longest, with no sign of abating. So if I’m ever served ‘the papers’, that’ll be near the top of the ‘Reasons for Divorce’ list, I’m sure.
Right after the third nipple and the ‘Oklahoma‘ thing. Can you hear me now?
Permalink | No CommentsThe latest sign that I’m advancing in age is upon me.
Tonight, I’m going to see Pearl Jam in concert downtown at the Bahstan Gahden. I’ve seen Eddie Vedder and the boys live a couple of times before, but it’s been years. And therein lies the evidence of my oldness.
In years past — we’re talking last millennium at this point, kiddies — my preparations for a concert were both thorough and exhaustive. Weeks before the date, I’d buy the band’s latest CD, and maybe older discs as well.
(And yes, I can hear you back there in the peanut gallery:
‘Did they even have CDs back then, grandpa? Tell us again about the good old days, and how you used the pterodactyl to listen to your vinyl records.‘
Jackass.)
“The best-laid plans of mice and men are often wrecked by a pre-concert game of Asshole and a bottle of Jagermeister in the trunk.”
I’d listen to the music morning, noon, and night. By the time the concert rolled around, I’d have every song committed to memory, word for word and riff for riff. That way, I could recognize an obscure album track from the very first note, and properly enjoy it from the beginning. I’d know when the band was ad-libbing, or if the guitarist decided to freestyle through a solo. All the borderline-compulsive repetitive listening to the band’s music afforded me an appreciation of the concert that few save the most dedicated long-time fans could match.
Theoretically, anyway. In reality, we ended up tailgating before most shows, so I’d end up passed out in the parking lot, dangling upside-down and pantsless in some stranger’s sunroof. The best-laid plans of mice and men are often wrecked by a pre-concert game of Asshole and a bottle of Jagermeister in the trunk.
At any rate, things are a little different these days. I didn’t immediately rush out for the new Pearl Jam CD when we got the tickets; in fact, I was a bit surprised when the disc showed up on my desk at home over the weekend.
(My wife bought it, because she’s cool like that. One of us has to keep tradition alive, she says. And it’s pretty much a given that it’s her job now, what with my one foot already in the grave and all. Clearly, I’m too old and decrepit for that sort of thing. Sometimes being the old man in the relationship has its priveleges.)
So, did we make the best of things and wear that CD out this week? Well, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Here’s what really happened:
Saturday: The CD shows up. The missus mentions she bought it. I tell her she’s ‘a real peach’. Apparently, I was born in the early 1800s.
Sunday: I’ve got a softball game. (It’s the quintessential decrepit old man sport.) The CD remains untouched.
Monday: It’s Monday. Who’s got the energy to try new things? Meh. The CD sits.
Tuesday: Sensing that the concert may be nearing, I unwrap the CD in the morning before work. At some point, senility kicks in, and I forget about it for the rest of the day.
Wednesday: I manage to remember to put the CD in the car, and listen to the first five songs on the way to work. Could I name a song I heard, or even hum the tune? Um… wait, there was something about a guy, who did the thing, and then a ‘dum badda de dum‘ kind of beat, and… no. I have no idea. The CD’s got an avacado on the front; do I get any points for that?
Clearly, I’ve failed in my preparations. Which means now I’m going to be ‘that guy’ — the crusty old fart at every concert who doesn’t know any of the new shit, and remembers when ‘these guys were so much better back in the day‘, and ‘since when did they get a new drummer? 1998? Oh.‘, and ‘can’t you whippersnappers pull up your damned pants?‘ and ‘who in the world is smoking pot in here?!?‘.
I suppose I’m stuck with my impending Alzheimer’s and liver spots, so I might as well embrace it. I’ll be happy tonight, so long as the band gives a nod to the songs I remember from albums past — just a sprinking of Jeremy, Evenflow, Daughter, Better Man, Glorified G, and… um, you know, that other song. The one about the woman by the counter. At the shop, in the town, or something. Maybe it’s a 7-11? I don’t know.
Oh, just shoot me now. It’s bad enough I’m too old to keep up with the new music, but now it’s been so long, I can’t remember the old shit, either. Soon, all I’ll have left is nursery rhymes and Lawrence Welk. And YOU KIDS GIT OFFA MY LAWN! Meh.
Permalink | No CommentsThere are times when I question the fundamental ingenuity of the human race. In a world plagued by guerrila advertising, Dr. Phil-isms, and reality show dreck, I sometimes wonder whether humanity inherently prefers easy, prepackaged answers.
That’s when my three saviors come to the rescue. Just when I’m ready to give up all hope for the creative aptitude of our species, I remember three inventions that required enormous leaps of logic, and without which life — my life, at least — wouldn’t be the same. Let’s celebrate these three crowning achievements, shall we?
#1. Contact lenses
When contact lenses came along, eyeglasses had been around for hundreds of years. And frankly, glasses weren’t such a hot-shit invention; if raindrop ‘lenses’ were around for cavemen to notice, how hard was it to think of looking through one while you’re squinting at the Sunday crossword? Hardly impressive.
But eventually, someone took the bold next step to say:
‘If glasses strapped onto our faces are good, glass embedded into our faces should be even better.‘
“If that reasoning were applied to athletic supporters, for instance, we’d have football players walking around with steel-plated scrotums instead of jock straps.”
Admittedly, such logic does not always hold true. We’re probably lucky that our pioneering friend was interested in the field of optometry, instead of, say, sporting equipment. If such reasoning were applied to athletic supporters, for instance, we’d have football players walking around with steel-plated scrotums instead of jock straps. Clearly, that wouldn’t work out very well. Getting the team through the metal detectors at airports would be a nightmare, just for starters.
I also find it hard to believe that we got contact lenses right the very first time. Or that the first trial wearers were particularly willing. I imagine the
invitation for test subjects running something like this:
‘Volunteers needed for revolutionary vision improvement experiment. Subjects will have glass crammed into their eyeballs to determine whether vision is improved. Great for students needing extra cash!‘
Hopefully, the labs sprang for Braille lessons, after the first round of testing. Or at least eyepatches.
Tragically blinded guinea pigs aside, they finally got contact lenses right, which allows me today to lead a normal, non-blurry, and relatively accident-free existence. All thanks to one brilliant person, many years ago, who was brave enough to stuff shards of glass into other peoples’ eyes to see what would happen. Bravo.
#2. Credit cards
The concept of money is odd enough, if you look at it objectively. What inherent value is there in the little scraps of paper and metal discs that we trade around for goods and services? They can’t feed our families, or shelter us in winter, or take us behind the dumpster at Denny’s for a quickie. So what good are they, really?
Still, money’s been around for thousands of years, in one form or another. However it’s represented — by bits of paper, by livestock, or by Prada handbags — money has always been a convenient and tangible way to know who you’re better than, and by exactly how much.
That’s why credit cards are such sublime genius. As ridiculous as the bits of paper might be, now they’re no longer needed. Instead of waving around our cash wads of varying girth and heft to prove our worthiness, we’ve each got an ID card-sized ticket for more bits of paper than we could ever actually earn. We can buy whatever we want, with only the promise of bits of paper that we never had in the first place.
And now, with fully automated systems like grocery store self-checkout machines, we eliminate the promise, too. We can pick up a carton of milk, scan our card to let a machine know that bits of paper are probably on the way, while we also tell the faceless, soulless corporation that gave us the card that we might, someday, repay them some portion of those bits of paper that don’t actually physically exist in the first place.
To be fair, I’m pretty sure that’s how settlers bought Manhattan from the Native Americans. Still, credit cards? Very creative.
#3. Beer
Here’s the thing about beer:
If you, as a farmer from somewhere in the deep annals of history, harvest and eat your grain immediately, it will be fresh and delicious, and you will find yourself strengthened and invigorated by the fiber and nutrients therein.
If, instead, you eat your grain after too many months of substandard storage, it will be soggy and spoiled, and you will find yourself sickened and possibly endeadened by the infection and fungus therein.
It is only by eating your grain after just the right number of months of substandard storage that the grain will be reduced and fermented, and you will find yourself overjoyed and intoxicated by the alcoholic yeast piss within. You still might be endeadened, but it’ll be a much nicer ride.
So, the magic of beer brewing is as much a lesson in bravery and stubbornness as in creativity. You can probably get a nice buzz from drinking juuuust the right amount of turpentine, too, but to keep trying after the last dozen guys have died foaming at the mouth shows real perserverance.
Or stupidity, I guess. Maybe dumb luck and a short memory is all it really takes to be creative. In which case, I think the human race has all the ingenuity it can handle, after all.
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