UPDATE: for a specific example, brilliantly written by the lovely and gracious Tim Footman:
http://culturalsnow.blogspot.com/
post of august 8 2006
One afternoon back in 1991 I turned on the television set.
I saw Regis Philbin and Kathy Lee Gifford.
I yanked the plug out of the wall by the cord and didn't turn the television back on for six years.
The Stainless Steel Amazon will confirm this. She was there.
I did not do it for ideological reasons. I didn't do it for parenting reasons. She could watch whatever she wanted to at her friends' homes, there was no restriction at all. And we certainly didn't deprive ourselves of the holy glow of the crt*...we rented LOTS of movies, most of which were light entertaining crap.
But they were crap we chose.
The few times I tried to explain my reasons to people I got some completely uncomprehending looks. And it's really very simple...there is already too much 'average' in the world.
It kind of creeps me out that other people find that opinion so odd. It's like it's unAmerican or something.
"How can you not like television? "
I can not like it because after awhile a steady diet of anything gets old and a steady diet of bland gets old quick. That's how. Fuck, I felt like my brain was being homogenized.
There were contributing factors, of course.
At the time I was extremely angered by the discovery that in order to get any truth about Desert Storm I had to tune in to the Canadian coverage of the war. We were being told NOTHING. What we were being fed was so sanitized that it was wasted time.
I was also fed up to the teeth of having shit pimped at me every 2.5 minutes. Thirty-one years of having shit pimped at me, at that point.
Thirdly I was simply tired of the constant sound of scams and lies. At that time in my life I was face-first in the middle of scams and lies; hell, I knew lots of real people who could do it better! And if they weren't allowed in my house any more, why should this shit be any different?
I've mellowed a lot. Now, if there is something scheduled about Egypt or Iceman or historic events or archaeology, I happily plan to view. I can visit someones' home now and be sociable while the television plays in the background. This did not used to be the case. (I used to pretend to go to the bathroom and then stay in there a long time. People probably thought I had weevils or something.) I can tolerate television without taking its' stupidity quite so personally. For a limited amount of time.
Regis Philbin is still on my shit list, though.
*'VIDEODROME' was a documentary.
shhhh. that's a secret. don't tell ANYONE.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
just cut around the bad spots and use lots of dressing
saturday UPDATE: The playboy has bagged 1. the cable guy. I flat busted them and had to pretend I didn't have a clue. Also 2. The woman who rents out the PENTHOUSE APARTMENT has signified that she would in no way be adverse to his attentions.
THATS IN THE FIRST TWO DAYS IN HIS NEW DIGS, FOLKS.
This is inlaw week at Rancho FirstNations, I swear. Today we formally moved the Playboy of the Western World into his new apartment. Actually Mayflowers Movers moved him and he and I and one of his fans got in their way. I felt kinda bad for the guys. There you had an older gentleman with a walker who wants to follow you from room to room and tell you the history of all his belongings as you are trying to manhandle them into a large truck, a buxom redskin marshalling everyone around with no very real clue as to what goes and what stays pointing imperiously at piles of trashbags, and Bubba the elderly hippie queen wafting about shouting 'Willie, come SIT DOWN!' while eyeing the smaller 'objets' at arms length over the top of his half-glasses wistfully.
Then the whole circus moved from the four bedroom house to the one-bedroom-and-kitchenette apartment, where pretty much the same activity commenced but in reverse and on a much smaller scale, resembling the 'stateroom scene' in 'A Night at the Opera.'Yes, we were actually clambering over furniture and getting caught in the legs of the walker; it was - meh; it was pretty much a day in the life; actually. It was awfully close quarters. (One of those movers was smelling SO fine. I wouldn't allow the Yummy Biker out of the house wearing that cologne, thats for sure. Not unescorted.) Gotta hand it to them; despite all the 'help' they got it done in two hours and not one single casualty.
The poor movers had to hustle everything up directly through the center of the place using the passenger elevator. (Of COURSE the freight elevator was down.) The lobby filled with residents all discussing the new fish and taking a nice long look at his swag. Oh, the oxygen machines were pumping overtime! Many a pair of Depends' were filled at the sight of all that Mediterranian brass and Haitiian ironwood going past! And they didn't even see the Man Ray photograph. I did. It was nekkid.
We had barely begun to unpack and already two little widows had come in and introduced themselves. I earned myself a shot in the head for pointing out 'Gee! Looks like you're going to get a lot of play here, huh?" rather loudly. Zotz, right in the head. "Yes and thats EXACTLY what I need!" he rejoined.
Later on we sent out for gyros and baklavas and he got the television hooked up. When I left he was watching a soap opera, full blast, standing in front of the screen peering intently at the action, which at this point in the proceedings consisted of "Oh! Anthony! Oh, oh God, yes! Oh, oh, oh yes, Anthony!" Hell, I left the door open. All the way down to the third floor 'Oh, Anthony! oh darling, yes darling, oh, oh..' rode with me.
Oh yes, the Leopold is in for a shakeup.
...And yes, I inherited all the used vegetables.
THATS IN THE FIRST TWO DAYS IN HIS NEW DIGS, FOLKS.
This is inlaw week at Rancho FirstNations, I swear. Today we formally moved the Playboy of the Western World into his new apartment. Actually Mayflowers Movers moved him and he and I and one of his fans got in their way. I felt kinda bad for the guys. There you had an older gentleman with a walker who wants to follow you from room to room and tell you the history of all his belongings as you are trying to manhandle them into a large truck, a buxom redskin marshalling everyone around with no very real clue as to what goes and what stays pointing imperiously at piles of trashbags, and Bubba the elderly hippie queen wafting about shouting 'Willie, come SIT DOWN!' while eyeing the smaller 'objets' at arms length over the top of his half-glasses wistfully.
Then the whole circus moved from the four bedroom house to the one-bedroom-and-kitchenette apartment, where pretty much the same activity commenced but in reverse and on a much smaller scale, resembling the 'stateroom scene' in 'A Night at the Opera.'Yes, we were actually clambering over furniture and getting caught in the legs of the walker; it was - meh; it was pretty much a day in the life; actually. It was awfully close quarters. (One of those movers was smelling SO fine. I wouldn't allow the Yummy Biker out of the house wearing that cologne, thats for sure. Not unescorted.) Gotta hand it to them; despite all the 'help' they got it done in two hours and not one single casualty.
The poor movers had to hustle everything up directly through the center of the place using the passenger elevator. (Of COURSE the freight elevator was down.) The lobby filled with residents all discussing the new fish and taking a nice long look at his swag. Oh, the oxygen machines were pumping overtime! Many a pair of Depends' were filled at the sight of all that Mediterranian brass and Haitiian ironwood going past! And they didn't even see the Man Ray photograph. I did. It was nekkid.
We had barely begun to unpack and already two little widows had come in and introduced themselves. I earned myself a shot in the head for pointing out 'Gee! Looks like you're going to get a lot of play here, huh?" rather loudly. Zotz, right in the head. "Yes and thats EXACTLY what I need!" he rejoined.
Later on we sent out for gyros and baklavas and he got the television hooked up. When I left he was watching a soap opera, full blast, standing in front of the screen peering intently at the action, which at this point in the proceedings consisted of "Oh! Anthony! Oh, oh God, yes! Oh, oh, oh yes, Anthony!" Hell, I left the door open. All the way down to the third floor 'Oh, Anthony! oh darling, yes darling, oh, oh..' rode with me.
Oh yes, the Leopold is in for a shakeup.
...And yes, I inherited all the used vegetables.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Henshin Disabled!? The Hakaida Great Revolt!
Oh yay! Oh hoo-fucking rah! The inlaws are coming over!
At least they called first. They usually don't. Yippee-skippee.
This would be the Yummy Bikers' stepfather and natural mother. Yes, this is the man his mother married and divorced three separate times.
Oh, he is a pip.
He is also a deaf pip. Deaf as a post. So not only is he surly and completely lacking in respect for anything with tits, he shouts 'Huh? What?' all the time. Of course, it is your fault for talking too softly.
They own a Caddilac the size of a small office building that neither of them can figure out how to operate properly. This makes taking long drives with them a special treat...and they always insist on doing all the driving.
My mother in law, who shall hereafter be known as Party Girl, will drag me outside every 20 minutes to sneak a cigarette which she is completely convinced nobody but me realizes she is smoking.
Later we will go to lunch and when the server arives and asks if anyone wants anything to drink everyone will get all tense and uncomfortable and cut their eyes at each other and pretend not to look at her. Whereupon she will either sheepishly deny wanting a drink and then pout and whine for the rest of the meal, or defiantly order a drink...whereupon her husband (who shall hereafter be known as Captain Shithead) will pout and whine for the rest of the meal.
Yay!
YAY!
YAY!
Yes! Oh you BET I feel sorry for myself! Yes! I hate having to socialize with anybody! If God had meant for me to socialize he would have made me a pleasant person who gives a happy chunk of wacky crap.
I don't.
I don't care how R and S are doing. I know S is a bulemic. I know S is a compulsive housekeeper. I know R can't hold a job. I know R and S have a marriage you consider peculiar. Oh my yes, now THERES the pot calling the kettle disfunctional.
Neither do I care about R2 and D. I know you think D is too fat. I know you think D is a lousy mother. I know you think D is a lousy housekeeper. I know you think R2 and D have a lousy marriage (see above) I know you think their kids married beneath them.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I KNOW.
I also know you want to be here just about as much as I want you here.
Thank God, later on I get to go play with my grandson.
UPDATE;
I am now the proud owner of a 1/4 head of cabbage thats turning black and a 1/2 head of lettuce thats turning into liquid, a tomato with a bad spot and 15 pounds of freezer burnt halibut.
Sigh.
At least they called first. They usually don't. Yippee-skippee.
This would be the Yummy Bikers' stepfather and natural mother. Yes, this is the man his mother married and divorced three separate times.
Oh, he is a pip.
He is also a deaf pip. Deaf as a post. So not only is he surly and completely lacking in respect for anything with tits, he shouts 'Huh? What?' all the time. Of course, it is your fault for talking too softly.
They own a Caddilac the size of a small office building that neither of them can figure out how to operate properly. This makes taking long drives with them a special treat...and they always insist on doing all the driving.
My mother in law, who shall hereafter be known as Party Girl, will drag me outside every 20 minutes to sneak a cigarette which she is completely convinced nobody but me realizes she is smoking.
Later we will go to lunch and when the server arives and asks if anyone wants anything to drink everyone will get all tense and uncomfortable and cut their eyes at each other and pretend not to look at her. Whereupon she will either sheepishly deny wanting a drink and then pout and whine for the rest of the meal, or defiantly order a drink...whereupon her husband (who shall hereafter be known as Captain Shithead) will pout and whine for the rest of the meal.
Yay!
YAY!
YAY!
Yes! Oh you BET I feel sorry for myself! Yes! I hate having to socialize with anybody! If God had meant for me to socialize he would have made me a pleasant person who gives a happy chunk of wacky crap.
I don't.
I don't care how R and S are doing. I know S is a bulemic. I know S is a compulsive housekeeper. I know R can't hold a job. I know R and S have a marriage you consider peculiar. Oh my yes, now THERES the pot calling the kettle disfunctional.
Neither do I care about R2 and D. I know you think D is too fat. I know you think D is a lousy mother. I know you think D is a lousy housekeeper. I know you think R2 and D have a lousy marriage (see above) I know you think their kids married beneath them.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I KNOW.
I also know you want to be here just about as much as I want you here.
Thank God, later on I get to go play with my grandson.
UPDATE;
I am now the proud owner of a 1/4 head of cabbage thats turning black and a 1/2 head of lettuce thats turning into liquid, a tomato with a bad spot and 15 pounds of freezer burnt halibut.
Sigh.
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