Nuthin on

My memory of my childhood is extremely detailed.  I am accused of lying in some circles.  My brother in-law feels that no one could accurately remember their childhood in the manner of which I am accustomed.  This same individual believed the weapons of mass destruction story as well,  I mention his opinion for reference only, not to achieve any validity for my prose.  One of the memories that I often ponder is my past love of television.  Different shows mark different stages of my youth.  Of course there were only four channels to choose from.  There was ABC, NBC, CBS and the Superstation, channel 17.  The Superstation was the original product of a good Georgia boy who made it big, Ted Turner.  I am not sure which parts of this great country received TBS in the beginning.  If you did not, I will not apologize.  You should have lived in Georgia like normal people.  Regardless of the limited choices, the programming was spectacular.  There was always something to watch.  My formidable TV years range from 1968 to 1979, so the shows I mention will reflect this long gone era of superior entertainment.  Here are a few of my favorites: Gunsmoke, All in the Family, The Partridge Family, Gilligan's Island, Hogan's Heroes, Mash, Happy Days, Good Times, Leave it to Beaver, The Rockford Files, Mannix, The Streets of San Francisco, Night Gallery, Star Trek,  Perry Mason, Maude, The Bob Newhart Show, Mary Hartman Mary Hartman, The Jefferson's, Soap, Charlie's Angels, Laverne and Shirley, Love American Style, Grizzly Adams, Laugh In,  The Walton's, The Love Boat, Bonanza, Truth or Consequences, The Tonight Show (with Carson), The Gong Show, Match Game, Fantasy Island, Don Kirshner's Rock Concert, American Bandstand, The Banana Splits, Loony Toons, etc.  I could keep going, but I think you get the picture. I'm talking about good TV, back in the days when rasslin' was real!  Even the shows that were in syndication at that point were better than today's programs.  There were no recording devices.  We were required to adjust our lives.  Hurry home so we can see what JR did this week !  There was anticipation from week to week.  Watching reruns was like eating a box of chocolates (You know the rest). There was a total absence of reality TV shows.  Who needs reality ?  There are enough freaks in my daily existence to cover that void.  We watch to escape reality.

The Present number of channels is mind numbing.  A show's season only runs 8 to 10 weeks.  Even at that rate they still take a few weeks off.  The news we hear is all according to what channel we watch.  I miss Cronkite.  We need people who report the news, not people who make it.  The present shows can be fit into one of five basic scripts.  You figure that one out.  For example, go watch a few old episodes of CSI.  It is not hard to find them.  I think there are approximately 9 channels that run the show 24/7.  If you watch close, it will be apparent that they are simply changing the names and in what manner the victims die.  A monkey could write this show, but it remains number one.  I spend hours trying to find quality.  I flip through the 266 channels that are provided, and without intention, I always end up back on TBS or TV Land.  Ted left a legacy, the programmers still understand that the goods have past us by.  Why write and produce new shows, when you can better the competition by running the same old reruns. I do appreciate some of todays shows, but I could not start a list.  Please Hollywood, help us out.  Get creative.  Make the writers work.  Reality TV is mindless.  Really, it sucks !   Oh screw it; I'm going to watch some Barney Miller reruns.

Bad Neighbors

We have all had them.  You know the kind.  They are always bitching and complaining about something.  The noise is to loud.  The car is on my grass.  Your leaves are blowing in my yard.  Your dog shit, and I can smell it in my living room.  That's right, I am speaking of the ever present "bad Neighbor".  There are a few common denominators that apply to these individuals.  Mine meets most if not all of the needed criteria.  She is old, lonely, prone to drink, and a widow.  I heard her husband died (I can only assume by his own hand) about 5 years ago.  She like many before her has dedicated her existence to spreading bitterness around our planet.  For rhetorical purposes, I will refer to her as Medusa.  Down south, people with proper raisin' avoid screaming and yelling in the street.  Instead we lob innuendos across the street while leaning on the business end of a rake and sipping a beer.  From a distance one would think we were being cordial.  Nothing could be farther from the truth. Just recently, I had my scheduled spring run in with Medusa.  It always involves a particular plant at the corner of my yard.  It is one of those grassy cat tails that requires either the home owner or a contracted Latin agency to perform a day of trimming.  Unfortunately, a few of the trimmings inevitability  blow into Medusa's yard.  Today, she came out of the door with her nose in the air.  She was sniffing the wind like a wolf trying to locate his prey.  She must of gotten a whiff of my Jovan Sex Appeal cologne.  Her demeanor changed immediately; she knew I had been in the yard.  Then, she saw the plant.  It had been neatly trimmed.  She began pacing her yard looking for evidence that would justify her planned attack.  I watched from my window as Medusa stormed across the street with one long blade of Pompous Grass in her hand.  For a brief moment, I thought she may have been recognizing Palm Sunday in her own psychotic way.  I was wrong.  I immediate abandoned my inherited social restraint and met her half way.  She is originally from up north, and despite her extended stay, she still maintains her Yankee accent.  I on the other hand am a true son of the south and find both solace and pride in my "Suthan' Drawl."  We face off like Grant and Lee, but this day would not end with another Northern victory.  This would be my Fredericksburg.  My bayonet was fixed and I met the enemy head on.  I called her a lonely old drunk.  I recommended that she take her Ass back across the street, where she belonged.  I sympathized openly with her dead husband and reminded her that her bastard children never darkened her door.  I informed her that the members of the neighborhood association referred to her as the "Village Idiot".  It was brutal.  After the dust and pollen cleared, she had retreated back to her dreary home.  Her pride and arrogance had been purged.  The proverbial hat was in her hand.  I am sipping a beer at this very moment and watching out of my window as Medusa stealthy places a letter in my mail box.  No, it is not what you think.  Remember, we are in the south.  I am confident that it is a brief letter of apology, written on stationary that was acquired while visiting the Master's golf tournament in 1989.  I have received several in the past.  We will return to our cordial daily head nods as we pass on the street, but the war is not over.  Another storm is approaching.  I can almost smell the rain. Ready the horses !!!

Dogs, Friends, and Family

I have spent a large portion of my existence in the presence of canines.  I am comfortable with them.  I am not sure exactly how I stumbled upon this lot in life, however, I am keenly aware of the purpose that these creatures serve.  They provide comfort.  They are a diversion to those upright associates that tend to cause pain and stress in my world (aka friends and family).  Don't get me wrong.  It is not their fault.  I love my friends and family (most of them anyway).  It's just that relationships of that type come with stress related obligations.  Dogs are there for me. The following items never come into play, when dealing with canines: hygiene, manners, clothes, money, politics, religion, emotions, open communication, in-laws, etc.  I hope you as the reader can see where I'm going with this.  In short, my relationship with my dogs requires little or no compromise.  Granted, there is some basic responsibility as a pet owner, but the absence of all drama is euphoric.  My young Cocker Spaniel (Dude) is with me now.  He is snug under the blanket.  His feet are lightly trembling as he pursues a rabbit in his dreams.  A few moments ago, I released a 20 second fart that scanned approximately 9 octaves by my personal count.  He was the victim of a "Dutch Oven".  Although he is sharing room under our blanket with the essence of pork loin and butter beans, he continues to sleep peacefully.  It may not be very pleasant for him.  After all his sense of smell is extremely more sensitive than ours. Who knows where he draws the line when dealing with specific aromas?  The bottom line is, he accepts my lewdness graciously.  I as a friend will extend to him the same courtesy should his digestive system fall into question.  This rather vulgar scenario describes our relationship perfectly.  I marvel at his total lack of expectation.  He is totally accepting of my world.  Please understand that the type of canine comfort of which I speak is earned.  Developing a "good dawg" is an art..  This skill will be addressed in a later blog.  I will leave you now, because Dude and I both would like a treat.  Tonight, we will be sharing a few Cheez-itz and perhaps a few dry Apple Jacks for desert.