LACKING BRIGHTNESS, VIVIDNESS, OR SHEEN
Sometimes the world is exceedingly dull.
I recognize that this is not a particularly original observation, nor, perhaps, a terribly interesting one, but it is, nonetheless, one that one cannot help but confront when one finds oneself watching the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon. In fact this may be one of those bellwether moments in one’s life when a person simply must decide between two possible, though not necessarily mutually exclusive, realizations: 1] “I am exceptionally old.” or 2] “I really need to rethink my existence.”
[I am not quite sure why I correlate the watching of the MDA Labor Day Telethon – in fact all telethons – with being extremely old, but since I do not think I have ever observed anyone other than my great-aunts watch a telethon, I am rather sure there is some statistical correlation to be found.]
Anyway. Seeing that I am not, in actuality, extraordinarily old – except, perhaps, to a toddler – I might need to rethink my existence. I am not quite sure what I should be thinking about, seeing that my life, in general, is really quite lovely [see: wife, home, culinary activities, etc…]. But, nonetheless, here I am, sitting in front of the television with eyes obediently following the gesticulations of a man who has failed to be funny since well before I was born. I could chalk it up to some form of ironic mesmerization, but to be honest – if I am indeed capable of such a thing through this identity I seem to be composing here – I cannot invoke that hipster loophole.
No, I am simply sitting here watching Jerry in his tuxedo with his requisite untied bowtie hanging limply in a gesture invoking those long past Rat Pack glory days. I can’t understand why I am watching, in fact it is hurting my poor little head, but still I sit here. I can’t even tell you when it was that while flipping through the channels I made the decision to stop here. It was sometime after lunch, but other than that time has ceased to have any particular relevance. I have become trapped in telethon time, that seemingly eternal temporality that is only marked by the repeated calls for pledges incentivized through gifts designed to appeal to some population I cannot actually imagine existing.
Yet I do not change the channel. [Robert Goulet is currently belting out “The Impossible Dream.”] It hurts – and not that good kind of hurt – but I can’t get away from it. My thumb just won’t flick that button on the remote to make it go away. I can swivel to face the computer and write this, but I cannot let it go from the background; I cannot make it stop. It somehow fills the space of my day, reliably, unchangingly, perhaps a bit oppressively, and that, dear reader, brings me full circle to the proposition that I perhaps need to rethink my existence.
Suggestions are currently being accepted.
I recognize that this is not a particularly original observation, nor, perhaps, a terribly interesting one, but it is, nonetheless, one that one cannot help but confront when one finds oneself watching the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Association Labor Day Telethon. In fact this may be one of those bellwether moments in one’s life when a person simply must decide between two possible, though not necessarily mutually exclusive, realizations: 1] “I am exceptionally old.” or 2] “I really need to rethink my existence.”
[I am not quite sure why I correlate the watching of the MDA Labor Day Telethon – in fact all telethons – with being extremely old, but since I do not think I have ever observed anyone other than my great-aunts watch a telethon, I am rather sure there is some statistical correlation to be found.]
Anyway. Seeing that I am not, in actuality, extraordinarily old – except, perhaps, to a toddler – I might need to rethink my existence. I am not quite sure what I should be thinking about, seeing that my life, in general, is really quite lovely [see: wife, home, culinary activities, etc…]. But, nonetheless, here I am, sitting in front of the television with eyes obediently following the gesticulations of a man who has failed to be funny since well before I was born. I could chalk it up to some form of ironic mesmerization, but to be honest – if I am indeed capable of such a thing through this identity I seem to be composing here – I cannot invoke that hipster loophole.
No, I am simply sitting here watching Jerry in his tuxedo with his requisite untied bowtie hanging limply in a gesture invoking those long past Rat Pack glory days. I can’t understand why I am watching, in fact it is hurting my poor little head, but still I sit here. I can’t even tell you when it was that while flipping through the channels I made the decision to stop here. It was sometime after lunch, but other than that time has ceased to have any particular relevance. I have become trapped in telethon time, that seemingly eternal temporality that is only marked by the repeated calls for pledges incentivized through gifts designed to appeal to some population I cannot actually imagine existing.
Yet I do not change the channel. [Robert Goulet is currently belting out “The Impossible Dream.”] It hurts – and not that good kind of hurt – but I can’t get away from it. My thumb just won’t flick that button on the remote to make it go away. I can swivel to face the computer and write this, but I cannot let it go from the background; I cannot make it stop. It somehow fills the space of my day, reliably, unchangingly, perhaps a bit oppressively, and that, dear reader, brings me full circle to the proposition that I perhaps need to rethink my existence. Suggestions are currently being accepted.
2 Comments:
I, too, watch the Telethon every year. And I love it. Jerry is so staggeringly unfunny, so tasteless and such a perfect specimen of schmaltzy old show biz. Sorry I missed Robert Goulet. (I hope Jerry called him "Bob" or "Bobby.") Last night, though, I saw him make fun of the Goo Goo Dolls (who dedicated a remote from one of their concerts to Jerry's Kids) and then reverentially introduce Julius LaRosa. Jerry also traded awkward banter with his son, Gary, who performed with the Playboys. Jerry oohed and aahed when Gary said they were currently booked at Dick Clark's American Bandstand in Branson, MO. It's so campy, creepy and perversely entertaining that you simply cannot look away.
I unfortunately cannot claim the morbid fascination; for me it functioned much more like a black hole.
Post a Comment
<< Home