Hey...You're Doing It Wrong, Vol. 2

In connection to my previous post on internet conduct ("Hey, you...you're doing it wrong."), I felt compelled to add something:

I just wanted to take a moment to say that if we are friends—even by the most casual, electronic definitions of friendship that we settle for today—I will never demand that you agree with me completely, dissolve your own beliefs entirely, or ascribe to my philosophies as a measure of your worthiness to be my friend.  For some reason, for some purpose, for some cosmic joke, you and I were brought into one another’s lives and I, personally, would like to see where this journey takes us.

I have watched some pretty awful exchanges on my facebook newsfeed of late [not to mention what I see on the news or hear in the teachers’ lounge or witness coming from the kids’ mouths] and I can only shake my head and sigh because it is getting more and more difficult to be a humanist on this shitball we're all riding through the galaxy.  Call me naive, but frankly, I just can’t believe that that which makes us our own individual selves is tearing relationships apart so swiftly, so fiercely, and so publicly.  Being passionate about something is one thing—but being dogmatic about it is entirely another.  Also, intentionally stoking the flames by poking at another’s beliefs is a grotesque waste of time.  This is the internet, for fuck's sake—there IS no last word.

Whether it’s about your presidential candidate, your god, your opinion about Aniston vs. Jolie, or your views on the national gun debate, your hateful invective has to stop.  I am a believer in healthy, constructive exchanges about our differences if the objective is to create a safer, sounder, more productive world to share—but if it’s just about the “battle”, I have to ask you to examine your opponent and your impact upon them…and the world around you.  You already think your “adversary” is making the world a bad place—but are YOU doing anything to make it better???

You’re not convincing anyone of anything on either side—the only way to live your life is the way you can live with yourself when you go to sleep each night.  Did you do the most good and the least harm with the breaths you took in the moments you had today?   Did you make more people smile…or roll their eyes?  Did you make more people ponder your words and reflect on their meaning…or did you create such a dead space of hostility with your persecution of another’s perspective that they were too busy preparing their counterpoints to your rants and stopped listening halfway through?

Friends, be the best YOU that YOU can be…and if people are in your life that you care about, encourage them to be the best THEY can be—but that DOESN’T have to be a carbon copy of YOU.  Stop the hate.  Stop the diatribe.  Stop pretending you’re making a difference on here—in fact, get your asses off the internet and go volunteer with animals or kids or the elderly—hell, they need you more than your “friends” need to argue with you.

And yes, I’m fully aware that you don’t need my permission to feel or think or behave any way you damn well please—but I just wanted to remind you that someone out here in this cold, bleak cyberspace loves you [or at least likes you as friend] very much, just the way you are, even when I don’t agree with everything (or anything) you say. 

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…

“Hey, You … You’re Doing It Wrong.”

“Globalization, as defined by rich people like us, is a very nice thing... you are talking about the Internet, you are talking about cell phones, you are talking about computers. Of course, this doesn't affect two-thirds of the people of the world.” ~Jimmy Carter

Ironic, isn’t it?

Ahhh, technology—where once I was blind, now I see.  [Good Lord—PLEASE make some of it go away.  I’ve seen enough.]

The entire epic saga of the grotesque comedy of human tragedy—performed on demand, every minute of every day, available with a few strokes of a keyboard or a few swipes of a smartphone. 

Former gilded heroes like Armstrong and Paterno, their tarnish forever blackening their once-lustrous gleam. More people under the age of thirty-five googling how to emulate Psy’s dance moves than how to get involved with Hurricane Sandy relief.  Rihanna flipping her finger in the face of every woman who has known the inescapable terror of abuse, reuniting with unapologetic scumbag Chris Brown.  Kim Kardashian draining the American attention span to announce her incubation of Kanye West’s future-douchebag spawn.  A woman like Sarah Palin making it further in American politics than a woman like Hillary Clinton now likely ever will. 

Awww, resolutions are good.  Chris must not be so bad after all.

Call it saturation.  Call it inundation.  Call it whatever your thesaurus suggests—but the real question is: Where did it all begin???

My origin story—my completely seamless, fluid immersion into the circuitry of today’s modern technology is a moderately amusing outcome, really, because I still vividly recall the time, not so long ago, when a dear high school friend, the identical twin of the love of my senior year life, first introduced my family to the great and glorious personal computer. 

Prior to his insistence that my family move beyond the massive word processing machine housed in my mother’s office, its tiny black screen barely emitting a sickly orange glow, my family’s engagement with modern technology was limited to our Nintendo NES 8bit games (as I recall, Duck Hunt and Super Mario Brothers 2 were family favorites—and a grand step up from the Atari 2600 that had stolen months of my life, one hit of Pong and Pitfall at a time] and the Radio Shack Tandy 1000 [running a smokin’ 8086 microprocessor…jealous?] that sat upon my desk—silently calling for me to return to its Oregon Trails or to engage its Police Quest…or maybe if I was feeling particularly scholarly, create a short story on my DeskMate software to publish on my snazzy 24 pin dot-matrix printer. 

I can't let you do that, Mrs. E.L.

[All you GenX geeks are popping techno-boners at the state-of-the-art equipment I rocked, aren’t you?]

 You see, kiddies, when kindly ol’ Mrs. E.L. here got done walking ten miles to school each way [uphill and in the snow, of course, in boots made of ground glass and chicken wire, mind you…] she had none o’ your new-fangled gizmos like Wikipedia or facebook to help her out.  Nooo.

When papers needed typed, electric typewriters were available, dagnabit.  When you had a research paper to write, you hit the card catalogue in the library and you let your fingers do the walking.  [If you’re under twenty-five, you didn’t catch that little gem, now did you?]

When you wanted to update your German pen pal…

[Hey kids, there were these ancient times when if you wanted to get to know someone on the other side of the planet, you actually wrote them letters—on paper…by hand!—and…gasp!... mailed them.  Then waited for them to get them.  Then waited for them to write and mail something back.  That “Add Friend” button you kids have today?  That’s for pussies.  ANYHOO…]

 …on your latest haircut or favorite band or whatever it was you thought was relevant to share with that stranger from another country who was probably a remnant of the cold-war spying on American youth, you did so as explained above.  

 [Shit.  I think I just realized why my generation drinks as much as it does…]

But damn it, the rules of technology were different: If you wanted to share a new song you’d heard, you made a mixed tape, carefully selecting the songs, timing the spaces between tracks just so.  When you wanted to talk to a friend, you called their house [NEVER after 9pm, of course…for God’s sake, son.  Where are your manners?] and politely asked their parents if you could speak to them—and then hoped no one had picked up another extension in your home and was listening in.  And if their parent said no, they were grounded, or that they were doing homework, well, hell…you just had to wait until you saw them at their locker the next morning. 

Now, we have unlimited means for sharing our music, our movies, our moods, our meals.  Technology drives our every waking moment—but I am a member of the luckiest generation because I can partake of all the luxuries that technology affords our lives, but I come from a time when we weren’t completely dependent upon our digital leashes.  My cohorts and I can still remember the moment when our world stood up and spread its legs wide, straddling the divide between the then and the now.  Which, rather tastelessly, brings me back to my own technological deflowering—

The year was 1991.  Jamie (the boyfriend’s twin brother) was aghast at the prehistoric communication abilities of my parents’ law office; he made it his personal mission to drag us out from beneath our Neolithic incompetence [regardless of whether or not we were willing participants of this quest]. 

I still remember the lazy afternoons our unusual circuit of friends spent bumming around on the faded floral couches of their waiting room, talking the shit that seventeen-year-old morons talk.  Why my parents tolerated our near-constant presence is still a mystery to me—perhaps they figured if we were in there with them, we weren’t out knocking one another up or “taking the pot” that had every small-town parent in a tizzy. 

Anyway, Jamie was sitting beside the monochrome IBM monstrosity my mother coaxed her legal briefs from, stroking his artfully crafted mullet thoughtfully.  I could tell he was deep in thought as he fussed with the machine, but I knew something was really amiss when he failed to correct the peg in his tight-rolled Guess® jeans that was slowly unfolding above his spotless Air Jordans, but when you’re young and in love, it’s difficult to come up for air often enough to make a difference, so I returned to Hoover-ing his brother’s face when no one was looking. 

[Note—the Mrs. E.L. has replaced her usual brand of smarmy smart-assish comments with a special, limited edition, 90’s-reference humor!  Let’s see if the reader notices!]

Thus, I failed to notice him entering my mom’s office or even the engaging conversations they shared over the next couple of afternoons.  In fact, it wasn’t even until the glorious, custom-built 486 computer—loaded with Windows 3.1 and Word Perfect—and the enormous 14” monitor, was delivered and installed the following week that I put it all together:

Jamie had made his case for technological advancement and here it was, our liberation from the 80’s and our invitation to the 90’s revolution (admittedly, a year or so late…)

As my dear friend set up the system, his eyes gleaming with the unlimited potential of this advanced machine, I, frankly, was a bit more dubious.  After all, my Radio Shack Tandy had been serving me juuuuust fine for years.  Besides, my experience with this kind of technology (so readily available to the unsophisticated hands of mere mortals) was limited to films like 2001: A Space Odyssey, War Games, and Evilspeak [< Best. God-Awful. Horror. Movie. EVER.]  I mean, just look how THOSE situations turned out.

But sweet Jamie was like a child with a new toy—although, in retrospect, perhaps he was more like Gollum with his precious ring.  I distinctly remember him furtively encrypting the device with passwords only he knew, declaring himself to be the emperor of all of its software and hardware management.  A diehard fan of “Wayne’s World” on Saturday Night Live, I simply snorted at the mention of the words “software” and “hardware”, then returned to his brother’s face.

 Fast forward twenty years. 

Here we are: A new world, a new generation… 

…and what exactly are we doing with the blessings of our technological forefathers?  

Everything is online and available now [and I’m not even referring to Rule 34 of the internet here]—but despite the glory of our advancements, the world wide web is still virtually an unsupervised playground perpetually at dusk. 

What’s worse, in some ways, technology has become this ironic universal unifier and leveled the playing field so that everyone has their shot at being the bully behind the anonymity that technology provides, the sanctimonious safety of their cloistered keyboards. 

I mean, look at me, rambling thoughts into some imagined space.  I trust the integrity of my blog’s only request—if you don’t like it, don’t tell me you don’t like it, just go away—to protect me from being verbally eviscerated by anyone who stumbles across this open diary.  But I want to be known, to be agreed with, to be fussed over, and placed upon my electronic laurels to snuggle and bask in your love and friendship.  But God help me, the first time someone latches into me for something I say that offends or crosses them—I’d be a heap of so much ruin.

Let me put it this way:

Even I—the least pragmatic person you will likely ever meet—realize that human beings are not exactly known for their even nature, their abilities to abide others that disagree with them, or their skills in listening to an opposing viewpoint [rather than waiting, preparing what they plan to say in rebuttal]. 

Where there is community, there is usually dissension; I’ve likened the internet to a glorious island paradise, where everything is abundant and readily available and plentiful—run by four wild, discordant tribes who are determined to burn this motherfucker to the ground because they can’t seem to get over themselves and our perverse, incessant human need to be as “right” as we possibly—and publicly—can be.

Okay.  Maybe THIS one was a little deserved. I'm kidding. Sort of...


I’ve read a bit over the past year about google and youtube’s plan to limit abusive users of their technology, but I haven’t seen much progress (especially if you add up the troubling numbers of “kill yourself” memes that pop up with alarming frequency). The trolls are still lurking under every communication bridge, the billygoats are gruff and hungry for every human fallibility.

 I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the infinite opportunities of communication technology recently and I’ve come up with a disconcerting conclusion: Most of you are doing it wrong. 

Seriously.  Like 3/4’s of you.  Completely.  Wrong.

[And to be perfectly unambiguous, the unclear pronoun “it” is referring to using technology and by “wrong” I mean you are acting like assholes out there.  Hope I clarified any confusion.]

All of this extraordinary technology at your fingertips, all of this unlimited potential for knowledge and growth—and, as far as I can see, approximately three general sectors of users employing its powers: the young, the responsible, and the old.  And to be clear, age is not really the defining factor—it’s more a matter of philosophy of application. 

Don’t believe me?  Let me break down my observations for you so that you understand just how fairly I’ve examined this subject before drawing this deduction.  Before you move to argue, read on—

TECHNOLOGY LEVEL #1: Neophyte Tech-ling

Odds are that if you are using technology and you are between the ages of birth through, let’s say twelve:

1) Your parents have lied about your age to create illegal facebook accounts in your name to share delightful pictures of your adorable self to your family and their friends [or their exes.  You see, kids, depending upon how cute you are, your parents secretly believe that sharing photos of you with “the ones who got away” is an excellent punishment for those lost loves who didn’t realize what they had when they were with your mommy and daddy.  Yes. It’s pretty creepy.]

Typically, this stage of technology is reserved from birth through approximately age 3, when you become decidedly less adorable and usually have food/boogers/or shit (or—God help your gene pool—all three) on you somewhere rendering your photos useless for their intended purpose.

2) Your parents have discovered that sesamestreetworkshop.org, nickelodeonjunior.com, et. al. contain free resources that are superior to their own pathetic attempts to teach you to count or read or recognize anything outside the realm of Elmo or Dora because they have failed miserably as parents and should have their breeding licenses revoked.

[Remind me again why we require permits to fish or to drive but not to breed children?]

Typically, this stage of technological advancement is reserved from pre-school through second grade—but if you’re really in a pinch, you may still find the PBSkids grammar lessons helpful in American public high schools.  I should know.

Grandma simply wonders how much she truly means to you.

3) You have discovered youtube videos where the world of Spongebob Squarepants episodes dubbed with horrifying sexual innuendo and inappropriate dialogue is substituted for the charmingly inane chatter of the underwater sea sponge and his friends, where senseless clips made by scantily clad twidiots dancing, singing, and behaving like pre-pubescent morons are abundant, and where there is no limit to the number of “EPICFAIL” videos featuring guys racking their nuts in an endlessly entertaining variety of ways and may be consumed, day or night. 

Typically, this stage of technological interaction is reserved for adolescent males, from first grade through junior high, because they need something else to do besides masturbating.  [Parents, pick your poison.]

TECHNOLOGY LEVEL #2: Novice Tech-ubescent

Odds are that if you are using technology and you are between the ages of thirteen through, let’s say college:

1)      You are taking countless shady pictures of yourself (usually in your filthy bathroom, with the toilet and sloppy towels in plain view).  What’s worse, you are so busy trying to look like the photo is casually random and that you have no fucks to give, that you:
 

[Insert your own bizarre behavior here]:

a.      Make those absurd and deeply unattractive duck-like faces

b.      Stick your tongue out to the side of your face so you look like a drooling idiot

c.       Lift your shirts just enough to display your abs and/or underboobs, inviting pedophiles to sample your wares [Dumbasses.  And by “dumbasses”, I mean YOU, not the pedophiles.  They’re evil.  You’re just stupid.]

d.      Look so utterly bored with your own existences that you take on the qualities of old-timey, post mortem photos of corpses.  [Seriously.  Isn’t there, like, a nursing home or a pet shelter you could volunteer some of this free time you seem to have in abundance?] 

e.     [Bathroom photo exception] Create permanent blackmail chronicles of your friends at your Red-Solo™-cup basement parties.
 

My husband is curious about this nanny service.
To follow up on that child's welfare, of course.

Typically, the ridiculous photography phase with this type of technological engagement has a very limited age range: fourteen to seventeen.  Most parents don’t award pre-teens smart phone technology and by the time you reach your   eighteenth birthday, you’ve likely reached your facebook mobile upload limit and finally noticed that potty pictures really are as disgusting as the rest of us think they are—so thankfully this period of your technological development is mercifully brief.

2)      You’re posting memes (which, frankly, are usually hilarious, so no fault there) or those absurd “Like if you…[insert random bullshit here]” photos from strangers filled with either completely banal or bizarre images (and hideous molestations of the English language and the basic tenets of grammar) or you’re filling your time posting updates of:

a.      …how bored you are.

b.      …how overworked you are.

c.       …taunts (in a rather ignorant half-written jumble of misspelled words with cavernous gaps in grammar) and/or flaming (do they still call it flaming?)—as in harassing, insulting, pestering —your parents, your teachers, your friends, and even strangers on the street for every single little thing that irritates you because, clearly, modern technological advancements in communication were designed with your annoyances in mind so that you could use these miracles to consistently express your displeasure with every element of society that does not conform to your expectations. 

[Oh, and please feel free to continue avoiding proper spelling and appropriate grammar, thanks.  It’s infinitely more fun to try to read through the incessant complaints when they’re written like cognitively impaired four month old chimpanzees composed them.]

                              

Unfortunately, unless you are friends with or followed by a parent or a boss, this particular type of technological interaction usually spans the entire age range from pre to post-teenage years. 

d.      You are inciting drama where you cast yourself as the reluctant star.  Breakups, makeups, everything is about shaking everyone up.  [Oh, are you pretending to not know what I’m talking about?  That’s so presh.]  Here, let me hand you the script:

You: [in tweet/ status update/ text] “OH. MY. GOD.  I cannot BELIEVE this is happening to me. Kill me now.”

Your friends: [with loving, urgent concern] “WHAT?!  What’s wrong?!  Are you okay?!  Where are you?  Call me.”

You: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Really?  Because THIS is what untold trillions in designing, testing, and implementing state-of-the-art communication operating systems were spent for—your coy fishing expeditions for attention?  Well played, teenage technology wizard.  Well played.  Steve Jobs just rolled over in his grave to give you a nice, slow, sarcastic clap round of applause on that load of bullshit.

TECHNOLOGY LEVEL #3: Master Tech-Wizard

Odds are that if you are using technology and you are between college age and middle adulthood:

Bless you.  You are the “Baby Bear” of the technological age: Everything you do is, for the most part, juuuuust right. 

You use Linked In to network broadly, you use Twitter to amuse regularly, you use Facebook to share with those closest to you, and you text or email to season your relationships with those who matter most.  You trade jokes and photos and recipes and advice, but rarely your dignity or your self-respect. 

I can't be alone on this matter...can I?

Sure, perhaps we’d all like to know a bit less about your Christian Grey obsessions/ your neighbor disputes/ and/or your sister’s latest commitment to weight loss.  And sometimes I’m a little concerned that your obsessively manic need to photo-document every moment you experience is destroying the point (e.g. it’s not about that moment anymore but the images that can be posted later via your instagrams, twitters, and facebooks.  While you may walk away with “proof” that the memory happened, despite the plasticized smiles and perfect poses, there is often no actual evidence of anything being made other than a good photo).  Something to think about.   [And, of course, you should still be careful when seeking out old classmates, former flames, and scores to settle.  When you even consider looking for trouble with technology, it has a way of coming back to you in ways you probably aren’t prepared for—but that’s another blog for another day.]   Still, y’all are still all right with me.

Seriously—we GenXers [yes, I said “we”—of COURSE I’d belong in the wisest tribe] temper our technological prowess with an appreciation for the past and a humble respect for the future.  You’re doing a great job.  Keep it up.  Be proud of yourselves, my brethren…it’s not like you’re anything like those [shudder]…

…Baby Boomers.

Oh Lord, we all know who we’re talking about, right?  The aging aunts, uncles, parents, and grandparents, otherwise known as:

TECHNOLOGY LEVEL #4: Crotchety Tech Codgers and Crones

Odds are that if you are using technology and you are between late adulthood and death:

1)      You log onto your facebook account, go directly to your  son/ daughter’s/ nephew/ neice’s/ grandson/ granddaughter’s wall and write an embarrassingly personal message IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND THAT CAPITALS ARE USED TO EXPRESS STRONG EMOTION so said recipient (and all of their friends) think you’re a shouty moron.  Or else you forward us a shitton of virus-loaded emails that go straight to our spam folders and then nag us non-stop about whether or not we received your “letter”.

"I love the young people!"

2)      You are clicking on every random ad that pops up on your screen with your name in it or an announcement that an old friend is looking for you because you can’t seem to grasp the concept of web cookies [In Voice of Old Man Jenkins: “Web cookies?!?  Sounds delicious!”] and infecting your system with absurd garbage that you know you’re going to be begging us to remove for you.

3)      You think the world wide web is like your backyard and everything and everyone that runs through it is a hooligan you can holler at for whatever reason you please.  You comment on every God-forsaken thing anyone has to say—relishing the public injection of your unsolicited opinions and rationales for why “they” [the strangers who disagree with you] are wrong and you are right.  You consider your actions as some sort of civic duty to inform the world…but your steadfast refusal to broaden, develop, or even budge your world-view make the rest of us view you as less of renegade tech hero and more of an obnoxious troll.
 

"I send him out for incontinence pads,
and he comes back with an iPad!"

Look…if it seems like I’m being particularly unkind to the elderly here, well—you’re pretty perceptive.  I have to put up with the young ‘uns thinking I’m an outdated, outmoded, hopelessly unhip and out of touch near-senior-citizen, too—you’ll survive.  Toughen up, old-timer. 

Upon reflection, I guess I’m not all that mad about the misappropriation of our technological resources—maybe just a little disappointed in my fellow traveler along this electronic journey.  I suppose that rather than being annoyed, I could just sit back and chuckle at the bizarre balance we four branches of technology users bring to the forum.   Sure, after this nasty election season and all of the fallout from the conclusion of the Twilight films, I’ve been a little bitter about technology of late—but in truth, I suppose I’m happy that the medium is available to us all.  It has been said that getting information off of the Internet is akin to taking a drink from a fire hydrant, and brother, they weren’t kidding.  Wading through the mess of information accessible today is a daunting task—perhaps we need our informal internet system of checks and balances from one another probably more than ever.

I just love awards season.

I have my freedom of expression fiends, I mean friends, who would argue that what the young and the old are doing is perfectly within their rights and even, arguably, their responsibilities as free-thinking Americans.  They don’t see themselves as rabid, bored house pets or obstinate, bored pot stirrers.  At the risk of biting the butts of either camp, I’ll stand by my assertion that the best use of the technology is the one that holds the middle ground and tries to make some kind of positive difference out here in the electronic world.  You know—the kind of user who is not yipping for attention or pontificating on the exhausted ideals they refuse to surrender.  The true winners in this electronic frontier are those who try to use this space for opening eyes and opening hearts.  Period.

In fact, we probably all have a mix of each kind of technology-user already in our lives—maybe it’s time to extend the olive branch… see the forest for the trees… buy each other a Coke and teach one another to sing.  Perhaps the way to fix the 75% of people misappropriating the internet is not by segregating, castigating, humiliating, deleting, or defriending them—but by leading the way for them by creating an excellent example of the way things could…and should…be.
     

Be the change...but did Gandhi envision Skype?

This brings me back to my sweet childhood friend, Jamie, without whose influence I would not likely be posting this message today.  [So, in essence, if you don’t like the shit that I write, blame Jamie.] 

The fact remains that this brilliant young man recognized the need for a family to move forward, fearlessly, into the coming future and he encouraged them to break free of the shackles that tethered them to the past.  Jamie ushered our family into a world where the access to information and entertainment—the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the unbearable—was at our veritable fingertips.  I will always be thankful for Jamie’s insistence on a life embracing technological advancement; his passion that we follow the electronic road more traveled has truly made all the difference.

Then again, maybe he just wanted to look at porn. 

Nah.  Nobody uses the technology for things like that.

 

That’s What SHE Said: Must Eat...er...SEE TV Addictions, Fall 2012

Though it may be difficult to believe upon looking at the lithe, svelte figure that writes before you today (just indulge me here, people), I have struggled with weight issues and body image issues since I was a very young child. 

I know, I know.  Hard to believe, right?  [Shut up.]

I suppose I could hypothesize that my addictive/compulsive esteem issues were rooted in my only-child foundations or in my fatherless upbringing, but I’d rather put the responsibility squarely where it belongs: in the oh-so-delicious, sticky hands of the McDonalds’, Monsanto, Hershey, Coca-Cola corporations.

The mixed messages of dentists collectively (and publicly) disavowing between-meal snacking and the ever-increasing advertisements for Kool-Aid, Jell-O Pudding Pops, and Hershey’s chocolate syrup (poured directly from the can!) made growing up in the 70’s and 80’s a particularly disconcerting time period for a latchkey kid with a rumbly-tummy and a couple of hours free of adult supervision in a house stocked with everything you’d need to satisfy the culinary cravings of an eight year old.

You can tell this is clearly a photoshopped picture of me
from my youth because I only ate COOL RANCH Doritos. 
So ha.  NOW who's laughing?

Three pm to five pm were always happy hours in my house: Butter and sugar on refined, white bread sandwiches.  Individually wrapped Kraft American Cheese slices.  Glass jars filled with air puffed, sugary Fluff, perfectly sized for spooning directly into my mouth as Martha Quinn or Nina Blackwood spoon-fed me the MTV music news.  Only a small stool and a tall shelf separated me from bagfuls of snack-sized mini-candy bars that eliminated the excruciating decision-making process of selecting just one treat—why, in a single sack were three of my best friends, Mr. Goodbar, Senor Krackel, and Madame Milk-Chocolate Hershey herself  (Hershey Dark never made my VIP list—he was simply too bitter and no fun.)    

Of course the party always had to end when my mom came home from work to craft the nutritious meal of red meat, starchy vegetable, and starchy side, dinner roll, and 8-ounce glass of whole milk that every 1982 USRDA/FDA guideline demanded.  (Seriously: Did anyone from this era have a “vegetable” that wasn’t corn or peas or a “side dish” that wasn’t potatoes, rice, or Stouffer’s Stove Top Stuffing?)  And good little girl that I was, I dutifully spooned what I was served into my mouth because I loved my mom and because Slim Goodbody and Schoolhouse Rock's “The Body Machine” told me to do so.

Sure, I’m exaggerating.  But the truth is, I found delicious foods unbearably attractive—whatever biological cue that is supposed to signal satisfaction or satiation from any pleasurable activity was missing from my genetic wiring. (I actually recall thinking that adults who pushed away platefuls of chocolate mousse pie or New York Cheesecake, claiming, “Oh, no.  I couldn’t possibly.  It’s just too rich!” were positively out of their effing minds. I choked, trying to swallow my unshed tears for those anthropomorphized plates of deliciousness that were left behind—dejected, unloved, and uneaten.)

Thank heavens the 1990’s eventually came along and suddenly we were all made astonishingly aware of these things called “fat grams” that lurked insidiously in our foods.  Why, if it weren’t for our good friends at the FDA, my girlfriends and I might never have learned to keep our figures slim by splitting a nourishing bag of Skittles and a single twelve-ounce can of Sprite between the three of us for lunch. 

“At least,” said my best friend, Missy, as she delicately sipped our communal beverage, “this Sprite has ZERO fat grams.”

Not to be outdone, my other best friend, Lisa, shoving a palmful of Skittles into her mouth, added, “And these probably count as a serving of fruit!”

Of course, I realize—NOW—that we stayed trim only by the grace of our teenage metabolisms (and the fact that we were splitting approximately five hundred calories between three people and essentially starving ourselves)…but we were years away from this wisdom.

Apart from those dark, ascetic teenage years, my journey with food has always been about the pursuit of deliciousness.  Finding something I liked, and then obsessing over when I could get more of it.  Food more than sustained me—it gave me entertainment, comfort, satisfaction.  If what I’m telling you has alarmed you in any way, please stop dialing the gentle-folks in Jenny Craig white coats to come collect me.  Put the phones down and step away from the intervention. 

I assure you—my tastes have refined and my indulgences are less suicidal now (I’ve replaced the McDonalds’ french fry fixation with a fascination for creative sushi, I’ve learned that the near-satisfaction from one package of Ramen noodles almost emulates the pleasure of three—and while I can’t say that the thirst for the 23 delectable chemicals that compose a Dr. Pepper doesn’t hit me every now and then, at least I’ve found that water and tea will slake the discomfort a bit.)  Besides, I’ve learned to transfer (thank heaven for modern psychology!) the more obsessive elements of my addictive nature to other outlets: photography involving my children, artistic endeavors with painting and drawing, writing superfluous commentary on pop culture confectionary—celebrity, music, film, television.

We don't need no thought control.

Ahhh.  Television: my other unhealthy childhood addiction.  Next to food, television gave me some of the greatest pleasure of my adolescence—the big box in the living room corner was a veritable smorgasbord of celebrities, music, movies—the world at my fingertips, with the twist of a dial.  (Sorry, pre-2K, folks.  Not every unit had a remote.  However did we survive such barbaric conditions?)

I can still so vividly recall curling up with mom and a Hungry Man TV dinner (how apropos!) and a bowl of Jiffy Pop (pre-historic popcorn you actually made atop the stove and not from the nuclear microwave radiation so common today) to watch The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Three’s Company, The Carol Burnett Show, Sanford & Son, The Jeffersons, Dallas, and Dynasty.  These were foundational elements of my earliest youth—I learned of romance, dreams, laughter, intolerance, resolve, corruption, and salvation.  And I learned that no matter how painful, debilitating, frustrating, or heart-rending the situation, every challenge could be introduced, faced, reacted to, and resolved in under an hour. 

Let’s face it—television is, and has always been an uneven media.  Television has captured and produced some of the most compelling moments of the last century; the highest of the highs, the lowest of the lows.  (Yes, I’m talking to you, Honey Boo Boo.)  Naw, I’m just kidding.  She won’t be able to read for decades.

Once more, I digress. 

The fall new show season is in full swing, and my response to the buffet before me has me salivating like a Pavlovian experiment.  Like a trans-fat-addicted refugee at the all-you-can-eat-but-only-off-one-plate bar, I’m stuffing my DVR with more morsels than I could ever consume—but I just can’t help myself.  My compulsions have reared their ugly heads and I am an eight year old girl once again, hoarding Kraft single wrappers under her mattress so her mom won’t find out she’d utterly ignored the advice of  those 4 out of 5 helpful leading dentists.  But, oh…the possibilities.  I can’t help myself—I’m dazzled by the steaming deliciousness of the fall lineup.

But it all looks so good, coos my clicker, her siren song inviting me to curl up and lose myself in blissful couch-potato-dom.

Yes, it does, responds the left hemisphere of my brain, her arms folded haughtily.  But didn’t you bank over a hundred and seventy hours of unwatched television LAST year?  When, exactly, do you plan to watch any of that?    

She’s right, you know.  I do tend to amass television shows like an eighty-seven year old lady from TLC’s Hoarders stockpiles ashtrays and used Ziploc bags.  Because I can.  And I just know that one day I will someday find a use for them.  (Seriously—on my first sick day this winter, I’m positively certain that I’ll devour an entire season of something while huddled under a fuzzy blanket and a mountain of tissues.)

It was during this imaginary conversation between my id and superego that I was struck by an epiphany—perhaps, much like my predilection for food, I could learn to manage my television impulses by breaking down my needs, and subcategorizing their relevance and importance to me, thereby creating a recommended weekly allowance of television programming that was substantive and nutritive, yet that would not bloat me or my DVR with unnecessary junk. 

There comes a moment when a healthy metaphor borders on an overwrought conceit—so I will cut to the clichéd chase:  What does the properly balanced television diet consist of, you may wonder?  Here’s my baker’s dozen, categorized by personal value:

Category 1, New Stuff: a.k.a. “New Shows That Look Amazing But I Am Desperately Afraid To Invest In Because Of The Soulless Corporate Assholes Who (historically) Lack Vision And Pull The Plug On Outstanding (or at least worthy of a reprieve to develop a following) Programming While Continually Lavishing Time and Money Upon Derivative Drivel That wouldn’t Entertain a Senile Monkey*.” 

*Note: This classification may also be heretofore referred to as the “Alcatraz, Awake, Invasion, Joan of Arcadia, Arrested Development, Jericho, Firefly, My So-Called Life, Viva Laughlin—We Hardly Knew Ye”- Category.  (Gotcha on that Viva Laughlin one, didn’t I?  Even the fabulous Hugh Jackman couldn’t save that wreck from derailment)—

Suck it, ComEd.

1)   Revolution—  I have always had a penchant for dystopian, alternative, or post-apocalyptic narratives (I count books like “The Stand”, “The Passage”, “The Road”, “The Great and Secret Show”, and every zombie/ biological warfare film among my favorites) and, I suppose I could state that, with the success of shows like The Walking Dead and Falling Skies, there is plenty of evidence that I am not alone.  For me, it’s not the destruction or the bleakness that fascinates—it’s the glimmer of hope that remains seated in the hearts of humanity that I find most compelling; the glory and exultation of even the smallest triumphs of good over evil.  Besides, the production value of Revolution looks pretty exceptional—and it’s got enough studio muscle behind it that Revolution may just join cockroaches and Twinkies in the most-likely-to-survive-annihilation department.  

Why yes, this IS the ritual sacrifice room.
We just had it decorated!

2)   666 Park Avenue—Vanessa Williams, television’s campiest, most-delicious vixen since Joan Collins bitch-slapped Linda Evans across the ABC network, coupled with Terry O’Quinn, cinematic-Stepfather-from-hell and Lost’s incomparable visionary/ demon-host?  As Satanic superintendents of prime New York rental property?  (In the 1980’s, there was a made-for-TV movie starring Susan Lucci as a devil-worshipping high-priestess in a Stepford-like suburb called “Invitation to Hell” that was so-awful-it-was-phenomenal…so you can imagine my excitement over this, right?) I haven’t seen a single episode yet, but there is simply no way this could be bad.  I’m currently preparing blood sacrifices to the dark lords of network programming to ensure that they don’t pull this dark beauty without giving it a sporting chance.  

3)   Elementary—



You can tell it's modern because
the gentleman doesn't feel compelled
to offer the lady a seat.



Why it will work:

·    Growing societal appreciation for nearly all that is quirky-intellectual (e.g. Monk, House, Psych, Dr. Who, etc.)

·    Sexy, B+ level star-power (e.g. Lucy Liu, agelessly appealing, and Jonny Lee Miller, Angelina Jolie’s ex and tasty star of the woefully underrated 90’s tech-thriller, Hackers) and if the previews are any indication, there will be chemistry, if not romance.

·    Gender flipping—Watson’s a woman?!  Cool by me.  Maybe we could get one of those into the White House someday, eh? 

Why it won’t work:

·    In a word?  Saturation.  If there were a maximum-occupancy limit on crime-scene-analysis programming, the fire department would have shut the networks down thirteen CSI/ Law & Order’s-ago.  It will be difficult to capture the viewing population with yet another New York City procedural…but…this one seems just classic-AND-innovative enough that I will give it a shot.  

"Andre, I feel compelled to tell you that I don't think anyone
will notice my performance on this show because you're on it."
"You're probably right, Scott."

4)   The Last Resort—Frankly, I’d watch a show of Andre Braugher grocery shopping.  I simply think he’s one of the most remarkably subtle, deeply talented, and shamefully undervalued actors of our time and long overdue on leading-man status.  Personally, I’m hoping this potentially groundbreaking new drama will finally afford him that opportunity.   

In this media-marinated modern society we live in, where fact-checking begins at the speed of the spoken word and where once-shady-back-door-deals are not only brokered boldly in the light of day, but proudly championed as "peace-keeping"acts of diplomacy, The Last Resort, with its crew of maligned U.S. Navy men and women who dared to question unclear orders to annihilate another country, has the potential to create some powerful dialogue about the frequent inaccuracies of our moral compasses.  The first two episodes were excellent—and I’m genuinely looking forward to the uncomfortable conversations this kind of drama may provoke.    

5)   Partners*, The New Normal* , The Mindy Project, The Neighbors—So, I see you wincing at the fact that I’ve lumped these sitcoms into one, but, to be perfectly honest, I’m hedging my bets.  I already have an exclusive circle of close comedy friends and I’m a bit of a snob about who I let into my crowd.  My taste in comedy is irreverent—to be a part of my comedic clique, a show must dance seductively at the edge of impudent satire, without falling drunkenly into slovenly, derisive ugliness.  (Hence, on my comedic rating scale, shows like Happy Endings get a “thumbs up” and crap like Are You There, Chelsea? get drug out to the back alley and pistol whipped to death.) 

Sadly, the odds are in favor of at least three of my new selections being dumped mid-season.  But I’ll make my case:

Why Partners?  Because Will & Grace was one of my all-time favorite shows and this is the fictionalized relationship of the men who brought that beauty to fruition.  (Plus, it stars Mark Urie, the greatest thing about the greatest show, Ugly Betty, which was filled with some of the absurdly greatest performances and plotlines I’d ever seen.)

Why The New Normal? Equal parts über-creator Ryan Murphy (Glee & American Horror Story), the unflinchingly inimitable actress Ellen Barkin, and the irrational impulse to rubberneck at what may possibly be the show that shakes Americans off the fence regarding divisive issues like gay rights (and even knock a few off their high horses on both sides of that fence).  Simply put—in comoedia veritas. 

Why The Mindy Project?  Mindy Kaling is a brilliant comedic actress, writer, and commentator on this bizarre freakshow we call modern life.  Period.  (As a middle-aged wife and mother, can I possibly relate to her incessant “forever 21”-man-chasing, body-image issues, and rampant “smart-girl-in-a-world-that-doesn’t-value-smart-girls” insecurities, you ask?  Yep.  She’s still in here somewhere.  I’d like to see where Kaling can take her.  That is, if she can avoid the Ally McBeal-ian pratfalls.  One dancing-baby daydream and I’m out.)

Husband, wife, spaceship.  Typical suburban Sunday. 

Why The Neighbors?  Even though I predict it will be the first in line at the sacrificial chopping block, if you live anywhere near the monotonous homogeneity of Suburbia, U.S.A., you’ll know exactly what it’s like to smile and wave at the strangers next door, then go inside to dissect your neighbors’ every action, from their choices in wardrobe to their (quite obvious) mistakes in child-rearing.  If you come for the first episode where you meet the Puritanical cult-like Zabvronian inhabitants of the Hidden Hills subdivision, please make sure to stay for the second episode where the alien observations of the typical American mall-rat hit very, very close to home.  

*As an aside, I simply have to mention that I recently read a couple of scathing commentaries on the portrayal of gay characters from shows like Modern Family, Partners, and The New Normal and, while I can understand some of the frustration expressed by writers like Mark Harris, that the representation of gay men on sitcoms as one-dimensional archetypes is reductive, I would venture to posit that these oversimplifications (e.g. Harris drew attention in particular to MF’s Cameron’s compulsion to “express every feeling he experiences on the scale of a Broadway musical” and Mitch’s “responsible but repressed, fussy” gay male) are no more apparent, simplistic, or insulting than, say, Friends’ finitely drawn archetypes of the American female as a neurotic, uptight controlling hag [Monica], a neurotic, emotionally-ambivalent, child-woman [Rachel], or a neurotic, free-spirited airhead [Phoebe].  I’m just sayin’.  

Category 2, Old Stuff:  a.k.a. “Returning Shows That Survived the Unholy Circle Jerk That Is Apparently the Executive Decision Making Process for Cutting and/or Keeping Programming and For Which We Must All Be Grateful (Lest Said Demons Return Our Beloved Programs to ‘He Who Walks Behind the Rows.’)”

This is totally what junior college is like.  Honest.

6)   Community—THE single greatest half hour of sitcom television, hands down.  Cerebral.  Winsome.  Blasphemous.  Brilliant.  Each character is their own amazing amalgam of insecurity and courage, virtue and vice, acumen and insipidity, made better only by its proximity to the character next to them.  Each episode is a near-perfect, self-sustaining example of cosmic television perfection made better only by its proximity to the episode that came before it.  Community is the love/hate relationship of pop culture and American identity.  I challenge anyone to watch the episodes “Epidemiology” or “Advanced Dungeons and Dragons” and not fall in love with this show.

What?  You still need convincing?  Fine.  They also have a cross-dressing dean, campus paintball wars, Claymation Christmas episodes, and a capuchin monkey named “Annie’s Boobs”, m’kay?   

7)   Parks & Recreation—I could spend pages defining the infinite combinations of characteristics that make this show work, but I will rein in my verbosity and give you a simple, two-word explanation for the P&R phenomenon: 

Ron. Swanson. 

8)   Happy Endings—Like Friends, but funnier.  And set in Chicago.  And where else could you find cocktails that give people awkward sex dreams from a food truck named “Steak Me Home Tonight”?  Once more, a simple two-word explanation for the unwholesome goodness of this program:

Penny. Hartz. 

(Oh, mother of God—why didn’t I see this before?  Ron Swanson, meet Penny Hartz.  Penny Hartz, Ron Swanson. Please procreate.) 



9)   Modern Family—Just your everyday family comedy, if your everyday family is split between three blended families in wealthy suburban Los Angeles putting the “fun” in “dysfunctional”, of course.  But seriously, all snark aside, every single episode of this show that I have seen over the past three years has contributed to a greater message—that a real family can look like anything at all, providing it can laugh at itself.  Every character is a perfect foil to another, and, somehow, their neuroses complement one another in equal measure.  Modern Family is still sharply hilarious, sweetly heartfelt, and just a wee bit hopeful.  If you can think of a better way to spend 22 minutes, then by all means, be my guest.



...'til the one day when the ladies (and
gentleman) met these fellows...

(FYI it's super fun to try and figure out who you are in each family—someone needs to write one of those facebook quizzes “Which MF character are YOU?”  My husband, who fancies himself a “Phil”, long ago deemed me a “Cameron”; it was a perfect choice, really, considering I’d pegged him for a “Mitchell” after the second episode.) 

They are rather ridiculously good looking, aren't they?

10) Supernatural—For six seasons I have been a die-hard fan of the plucky little CW show that could.  Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers, orphaned by the demons their family fought to defeat, served up Supernatural on a silver bullet from the very first episodes and held fast to their fans, hearts and souls.  You think Twihards are fanatical?  Just try messing with a true Supernaturalist or, ‘Saltgunner’, as they often refer to themselves.  (Who…me?  No, not me, of course.)  While I passionately love stories about all the dark things that go bump in the night (hence my affection for Sophomore season sweetheart, Grimm), what drives a Supernatural fan is more elemental than the painfully handsome male leads or the outstanding production value of the weekly mini-horror films they produce—it’s the multiple, interlaced, overarching storylines that weave a powerful chronicle of good versus evil, hope triumphing the chaos of reality.  The faith that, even in a world filled with the darkest abominations, there are still those willing to take up the fight for the innocent. 

As a true fan, I believe the saga should naturally have concluded two seasons ago—but…well…they are painfully handsome.  As far as I’m concerned, carry on my wayward sons…there’ll be peace when you are done. 

11) The Walking Dead—Economic and social collapse.  Failed government security.  Perambulating corpses.  Betrayal of lifelong friendships.  Desperate lustful connections.  The search for meaning in a world in chaos.  Just a day in the life as we know it, right?  



Hide-n-Seek, The Walking Dead Way.
Zombies really shouldn't play with their food.

(Minus the perambulating corpses, of course—unless you count the Kardashian-Jenner clan, I suppose.)   

With fewer than thirty episodes under its belt, it is no small feat that the compelling account of Deputy Rick Grimes and his tiny band of survivors have propelled The Walking Dead into one of the most talked about television shows in history.  The much mythologized saga charges the living remains of society to face the archetypal zombie hordes, fighting demons amidst (and often within) themselves that are far more horrifying than any of the creatures who mindlessly hunger for their flesh.  The scares are thrilling, to be sure—but it is the dull, pulsing ache that resides within the viewer who must helplessly watch the drama unfold that truly eats from within.  

12) Person of Interest—This is the only returning network drama I’ll be following this fall.  I would have put the sublimely innovative, superbly performed, brilliantly original drama Awake here, but midway through its groundbreaking first season, it received word of its impending execution and rushed a hasty conclusion to its final episodes to reward its loyal viewers with some sense of closure.  

Finch, you keep your eyes on the "Person", I'll cover the "Of".
Detective Carter, I'll need you on "Interest" Detail.

Fortunately, Jim Caviezel and Michael Emerson’s cloak-and-dagger guardian angel drama scored enough positive buzz that it was spared from the same unsatisfying outcome.  This is not to say that Person of Interest lacks its own clever hook—the conspiracy of post-9/11 Big Brother’s Patriot Act-paranoid screening of the ignorant American citizen—for our own good, of course—is not a conspiracy after all.  The surveillance comes full circle when the genius mastermind who created the monitoring system employs a haunted former CIA operative and several NYPD officers as a reluctant band of vigilantes hell-bent on saving the genuinely innocent that the well-meaning government deems unworthy of rescue and relief.  The watchers become the watched, and as one electronic puzzle piece slides into place next to the other, the mysteries of our anti-heroes unravel, investing the viewer deeper and deeper into the mythology of big government and the burdens of social responsibility.   

Plus, Jim Caviezel gets to kick so much ass with some cool high-tech toys, so it’s kind of a win-win situation for everyone.  Unless you were an actor on Awake.  Those people got screwed.    

*

So, once more, the baker’s dozen, implies a thirteenth something as a reward for sticking by me this far, right?  I thought about tossing in another show I’ll be watching/ hoarding on my DVR (e.g. I totally omitted my animation selections—the ever-fabulous Family Guy or the subtly brilliant Bob’s Burgers), or a few shows I sincerely wish would make it but that I can almost guarantee will be cancelled before I can even post this on my blog (e.g. Go On, Chicago Fire, Vegas)…but, in the end, I chose to go in another direction altogether.  For your approval, I humbly submit:

Category 3, Off My Radar & my DVR—a.k.a. “Put a Bullet in These Suckers Already.”

Yes, I know.  It sounds like I am being a bit of a bitch, especially in light of the countless amazing shows that were killed far too early, but sometimes I think it’s sadder when great programs were put out of their—and our—misery far too late.  (You know who I’m talking about, Roseanne.) 

Friends almost pulled the plug too late, but made it by a nose (ßinsert Rachel Green rhinoplasty joke there.)  Seinfeld and The Sopranos got the hell out of Dodge before anyone was ready for them to go, pissing off droves of fans—and while many didn’t like the hastily scribbled notes they left on our bedside tables while we slept, no one could ever argue that they overstayed their welcome. 

So, rather unceremoniously, here are the shows that should have stopped while they were ahead and now face that awkward moment with their fans…who just aren’t that into them anymore.  (Look—it really is better this way.  We need to explore and to keep our options open—seeing other shows is a part of growing.)

Law & Order: SVU Who are we kidding?  We should have thrown a toe tag on this one the minute Stabler left the fold.  The new teammates are earnest, but frankly, the past year without Olivia’s better half has been unbearable.  There.  I said it.

Glee: Don’t get me wrong, those scrappy kids from Lima will forever hold a place in my heart.  I just don’t know if I have it in me to invest in a whole new class or to watch the original gang pair off, fade off, break off, die off, or piss off the rest of their lives.  Last season’s finale was the perfect yearbook portrait, frozen in time—a touching tribute to the way I want to remember them for all time.  Will I watch the new season?  Yeah, probably—but while 2013 may be cool, 2012 will always rule…

American Idol: Two of the most annoying personalities on the planet, one with talent and one with none, bickering week in, week out?  Sure, it worked with Simon and Paula, but there’s no way I can get it up for Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj.  Following Dunkleman’s footsteps a decade later: “Mrs. E.L. Out.”  (No need to google who “Brian Dunkleman” is, kids.  He’ll probably be delivering your pizza later.)

How I Met Your Mother: As the one-time world’s—wait for it—biggest HIMYM fan, I can honestly say that this is difficult for me to admit…but it’s time.  It’s time.  You’ve got to leave if you ever want me to miss you.  (Say goodnight, Barney.)

30 Rock: Funniest woman ever.  Most gifted cast ever.  Most ridiculously innovative plotlines ever.  Run.  Save yourselves…before it’s too late!  (Did you hear that, The Office?  I warned you two years ago.  Damn tiny people in the box never listen to me.)

Two and a Half Men: Honestly, this one is so pathetic that I almost shouldn’t even bother skewering it.  Let’s put it this way, every episode just gives Charlie Sheen another reason to think he was justified and to mutter “Winning!” through his porn-star vacant, coked-out haze.  Isn’t that enough of a reason to just make this show go away?

All CSIs: While all three CSIs were once the staple of my viewing diet, they’ve been over-processed to the point where the quality ingredients that once set them apart from their competitors are nowhere to be seen.  Grissom, Caine, and Taylor: sign the DNRs.  Closure Seems Imminent.

*

Well there you have it—my treatise on the fall television lineup.  (And I only put away three Twinkies and a single Slim-Jim while writing it!)  It feels really good to finally master the addictions that mastered us, doesn’t it?  Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve got a DVR to begin unloading.  I should emerge from hibernation around the holidays. 

As always, this is only half the story—why not check out what HE said over at Suburban Acrobat?