Marlin Perkins I'm not. I don't enjoy animals and, as you may have heard me say before, the only pets I have are peeves. I find the adoration of Mickey Mouse repugnant; the only mouse I like is the tiny one connected to my mini-laptop. Nonetheless, when one of my dear friends (MDF) travels, I am the back-up cat caretaker who pinch hits for the primary caretaker who fills in when MDF is gone. I think of it as Kitty Meals on Wheels for MDF's cherished feline friends. Though it is not something I relish doing – after all, who enjoys cleaning the kitty litter? – it's one of those things we do for our friends, knowing that they would do something of equal value for us.
I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.
MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."
Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.
Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"
I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.
Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.
After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.
The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.
I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Face It - February, 2009
My BFF has a way of cutting to the chase. If she had been in “The Wizard of Oz,” she would have been the first person to look behind the screen and announce that there was just an ordinary guy back there, not some wizard. She took the same kind of view of Facebook, the popular social networking website that links friends together, and summed it up with a succinct, “Who cares?”
She has a point.
After all, we live in a culture where too much information (TMI) abounds. When someone inquires, “How are you?” or “How was your weekend?” what they really want to hear is “Fine,” not that you had your boil lanced or that the relatives came over and Uncle Elmer fell asleep in your favorite chair.
Then along comes Facebook, where never have so many said so much about so little.
Facebook demands to know what you are doing now. Right this minute. C’mon, give it up. And so people feel compelled to fill in that blank. If you ever think your life is dull, just sign on and you’ll feel at least as interesting as your “friends” on Facebook. Facebook is like a confessional, and people decide to proclaim their crankiness on any particular day. For every person training to be a museum docent, there are 10 people who are “stuck in traffic,” “exhausted,” “reading the paper and having a cup of tea,” or doing something equally compelling. See, your life’s not so bad.
And then there is the issue of “friends” and the etiquette of the medium. You have to request that someone be your friend, so you get requests from people who were in your first grade class, who worked with you 10 years ago or who kind of know you through someone else. In the real world, almost none of these people is likely to have your home phone number and talk to you on a regular basis – or at all. Oh, sure, it was kind of, maybe, a little interesting to hear that the guy from first grade is now a grandfather, but that just made me feel old. Maybe I’ll see him at a high school reunion someday, but until then, thanks to Facebook, I’ll be advised each time he goes to In-N-Out Burger and shares that information.
And speaking of friends, what if you don’t want to be friends with someone? You can ignore the friend request, but is that a breach of on-line etiquette (paging Miss Manners, Miss Manners, please report immediately)? The problem is, every friend I have also has friends, so each time Mary becomes friends with Eleanor, I see that on my screen. I kind of know Mary but have no idea who Eleanor is, so why should I care what she has to say? And then there are the people who go on-line 10 times a day and tell you what they are doing, invite you to stuff and promote their own personal and political causes. I actually “defriended” someone whose constant proselytizing bugged me – but she’ll never know (or so I am told). Finally, looking at the time stamp associated with each entry (17 minutes ago), I have to wonder: Is anyone actually working out there? Shouldn’t most of you who are stuck in traffic on your way to work be working when you finally get to the office? I smell a Facebook addiction here.
I had a comment from someone about my photo and how I hadn’t aged a bit. Are you kidding? First of all, yes, in fact, I have, but thanks for lying, and second, the picture was taken at least five years and 30 pounds ago. Do you really think I’d post a picture that makes me look like I actually look?
The latest Facebook fad is “25 Random Things About Me,” where you and your friends list 25 random things. Note that these are random things, not necessarily interesting things. In my list (yes, I succumbed), I included such juicy tidbits as: “I make my bed as soon as I get up,” “I only eat Bumble Bee brand tuna,” and “I can make a loud noise with my tongue that amuses young children.” Wow, aren’t you glad you know these fascinating things about me?
Some good can come from Facebook. When my 15-year old nephew’s cell phone died, he used Facebook to get contact information from his friends, who responded in nanoseconds (he also told me not to send him a friend request because I was not about to be included among his hundreds of friends and associates). You can ask for restaurant suggestions, vacation ideas or good books to read. You can take pop culture quizzes on movies and TV shows, post links to websites you like, or share pictures from your vacation, assuming anyone will want to see them, that is. I have compared movies with people with similar tastes and have heeded their suggestions. So you actually can share useful information.
So in the end, Facebook provides what amounts to the on-line version of the conversations I used to have in the elevator going to the office, except with much less emphasis on the weather. In other words, small talk – some interesting, some not so interesting, most completely unnecessary but occasionally amusing. But if your entry for the day is, “I’m tired,” then assume my response won’t be, “Thanks for sharing.”
She has a point.
After all, we live in a culture where too much information (TMI) abounds. When someone inquires, “How are you?” or “How was your weekend?” what they really want to hear is “Fine,” not that you had your boil lanced or that the relatives came over and Uncle Elmer fell asleep in your favorite chair.
Then along comes Facebook, where never have so many said so much about so little.
Facebook demands to know what you are doing now. Right this minute. C’mon, give it up. And so people feel compelled to fill in that blank. If you ever think your life is dull, just sign on and you’ll feel at least as interesting as your “friends” on Facebook. Facebook is like a confessional, and people decide to proclaim their crankiness on any particular day. For every person training to be a museum docent, there are 10 people who are “stuck in traffic,” “exhausted,” “reading the paper and having a cup of tea,” or doing something equally compelling. See, your life’s not so bad.
And then there is the issue of “friends” and the etiquette of the medium. You have to request that someone be your friend, so you get requests from people who were in your first grade class, who worked with you 10 years ago or who kind of know you through someone else. In the real world, almost none of these people is likely to have your home phone number and talk to you on a regular basis – or at all. Oh, sure, it was kind of, maybe, a little interesting to hear that the guy from first grade is now a grandfather, but that just made me feel old. Maybe I’ll see him at a high school reunion someday, but until then, thanks to Facebook, I’ll be advised each time he goes to In-N-Out Burger and shares that information.
And speaking of friends, what if you don’t want to be friends with someone? You can ignore the friend request, but is that a breach of on-line etiquette (paging Miss Manners, Miss Manners, please report immediately)? The problem is, every friend I have also has friends, so each time Mary becomes friends with Eleanor, I see that on my screen. I kind of know Mary but have no idea who Eleanor is, so why should I care what she has to say? And then there are the people who go on-line 10 times a day and tell you what they are doing, invite you to stuff and promote their own personal and political causes. I actually “defriended” someone whose constant proselytizing bugged me – but she’ll never know (or so I am told). Finally, looking at the time stamp associated with each entry (17 minutes ago), I have to wonder: Is anyone actually working out there? Shouldn’t most of you who are stuck in traffic on your way to work be working when you finally get to the office? I smell a Facebook addiction here.
I had a comment from someone about my photo and how I hadn’t aged a bit. Are you kidding? First of all, yes, in fact, I have, but thanks for lying, and second, the picture was taken at least five years and 30 pounds ago. Do you really think I’d post a picture that makes me look like I actually look?
The latest Facebook fad is “25 Random Things About Me,” where you and your friends list 25 random things. Note that these are random things, not necessarily interesting things. In my list (yes, I succumbed), I included such juicy tidbits as: “I make my bed as soon as I get up,” “I only eat Bumble Bee brand tuna,” and “I can make a loud noise with my tongue that amuses young children.” Wow, aren’t you glad you know these fascinating things about me?
Some good can come from Facebook. When my 15-year old nephew’s cell phone died, he used Facebook to get contact information from his friends, who responded in nanoseconds (he also told me not to send him a friend request because I was not about to be included among his hundreds of friends and associates). You can ask for restaurant suggestions, vacation ideas or good books to read. You can take pop culture quizzes on movies and TV shows, post links to websites you like, or share pictures from your vacation, assuming anyone will want to see them, that is. I have compared movies with people with similar tastes and have heeded their suggestions. So you actually can share useful information.
So in the end, Facebook provides what amounts to the on-line version of the conversations I used to have in the elevator going to the office, except with much less emphasis on the weather. In other words, small talk – some interesting, some not so interesting, most completely unnecessary but occasionally amusing. But if your entry for the day is, “I’m tired,” then assume my response won’t be, “Thanks for sharing.”
Monday, February 23, 2009
'Roid Rage - February, 2009
*“I've been cheated
Been mistreated…”
When I hear the term ‘roid, my first thought is hemorrhoids. I’m at THAT age, you know. When the term is applied to steroids, it is usually in the context of treatment for some serious ailment afflicting a friend or acquaintance.
Now when I think of ‘roids, I’ll simply think: A-Rod. Or A-Roid.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
The “truth” is out: Alex Rodriguez, New York Yankee, likely Hall of Fame baseball player and the highest paid athlete in his sport, used steroids while playing for Texas from 2001-2003.
Or so he says.
Signing the biggest contract at that time, A-Rod says he felt pressure to perform and took a few things – some of which you can buy at GNC, he claims – to enhance his performance. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was worth being one of the greatest players of all time.” Now he is “deeply sorry and regretful,” he tells us. “I’m sorry for that time and sorry to my fans,” he says. I don’t need any of that, he claims.
And why should we believe him? Was it really only 2001-2003 that he used these substances? Is he sorry he used performance-enhancing drugs? Or is he sorry he was outed by Sports Illustrated? Sorry for the act, sorry he got caught, or sorry he lied about the whole thing?
He was “stupid and naïve,” he says, not knowing what he was using. Why would a world class athlete whose livelihood depends on the health of his body take something he knew nothing about? Does that make any sense? He stopped using the pills, injectables in 2003 following an injury. So we are now to believe that he stopped in 2003. And signing the biggest contract ever with the New York Yankees in 2004, where the pressure to perform is immeasurably greater than in Texas, where he formerly played, didn’t make him feel that he had to enhance his performance by taking just a little something extra?
Maybe he should have. He certainly didn’t come through in the clutch in any post-season with New York.
While Barry Bonds faces jail if convicted of lying to federal authorities, while Mark McGwire is permanently ensconced in the Hall of Shame, while Roger Clemens goes before Congress and fiercely defends himself, we are supposed to feel better that at least Alex Rodriguez is a stand-up guy. He admitted steroid use and that he lied.
Kind of.
With this behavior – taking illegal, banned substances and then lying about them until he was caught – what message are we sending to society and especially to young athletes and kids in general? That it is OK to do something you know is either wrong or illegal and then lie about it as long as you later admit your guilt and say you want to put it all behind you?
A-Rod followed up his first interview with a press conference at the Yankees’ spring training complex. Here he provided more details, mostly along the order of “the dog ate my homework,” only for A-Rod it was the story of how his unnamed cousin – surely the stars of this drug-related “Dumb and Dumber” – injected him for three years with something available OTC in the Dominican Republic (it turns out – schock! that the substance was not available in the DR OTC, by the way). He wasn’t sure they were using it right or even if he realized any benefit from using the substance, but he continued getting shots from My Cousin Vinny for three years.
Why should we believe Alex Rodriguez now? Unless he pledges to take drug tests randomly and make the results public each time so we know he’s clean. Meanwhile, whatever A-Rod allegedly took is illegal. Was it banned at the time? Well, it was illegal, and shouldn’t that be enough?
Why do we care if athletes want to abuse their bodies? After all, isn’t their intention to perform better so their team can win and they can become champions? They are willing to risk it all in the long term for short term results. Isn’t that their prerogative? If so, why does it bother us?
Because they cheat. Because they lie. And because, as a society, we feel let down. Our standards are falling. People can cheat and lie, later admit it and we are supposed to forgive them for the transgressions because they finally spoke the truth.
Unfortunately, I can’t be so forgiving. But what I can do, from now on, is never believe anyone who denies doing something wrong, says he is sorry he did something wrong and that he/she will never do it again. I won’t believe anyone from now on.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
When A-Rod took his performance-enhancing drugs and lied about it and then admitted it, he took away my inherent belief in the good of people. Now I feel stupid and naïve. And isn’t that a shame?
*Linda Ronstadt – “When Will I Be Loved?”
Been mistreated…”
When I hear the term ‘roid, my first thought is hemorrhoids. I’m at THAT age, you know. When the term is applied to steroids, it is usually in the context of treatment for some serious ailment afflicting a friend or acquaintance.
Now when I think of ‘roids, I’ll simply think: A-Rod. Or A-Roid.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
The “truth” is out: Alex Rodriguez, New York Yankee, likely Hall of Fame baseball player and the highest paid athlete in his sport, used steroids while playing for Texas from 2001-2003.
Or so he says.
Signing the biggest contract at that time, A-Rod says he felt pressure to perform and took a few things – some of which you can buy at GNC, he claims – to enhance his performance. “I wanted to prove to everyone that I was worth being one of the greatest players of all time.” Now he is “deeply sorry and regretful,” he tells us. “I’m sorry for that time and sorry to my fans,” he says. I don’t need any of that, he claims.
And why should we believe him? Was it really only 2001-2003 that he used these substances? Is he sorry he used performance-enhancing drugs? Or is he sorry he was outed by Sports Illustrated? Sorry for the act, sorry he got caught, or sorry he lied about the whole thing?
He was “stupid and naïve,” he says, not knowing what he was using. Why would a world class athlete whose livelihood depends on the health of his body take something he knew nothing about? Does that make any sense? He stopped using the pills, injectables in 2003 following an injury. So we are now to believe that he stopped in 2003. And signing the biggest contract ever with the New York Yankees in 2004, where the pressure to perform is immeasurably greater than in Texas, where he formerly played, didn’t make him feel that he had to enhance his performance by taking just a little something extra?
Maybe he should have. He certainly didn’t come through in the clutch in any post-season with New York.
While Barry Bonds faces jail if convicted of lying to federal authorities, while Mark McGwire is permanently ensconced in the Hall of Shame, while Roger Clemens goes before Congress and fiercely defends himself, we are supposed to feel better that at least Alex Rodriguez is a stand-up guy. He admitted steroid use and that he lied.
Kind of.
With this behavior – taking illegal, banned substances and then lying about them until he was caught – what message are we sending to society and especially to young athletes and kids in general? That it is OK to do something you know is either wrong or illegal and then lie about it as long as you later admit your guilt and say you want to put it all behind you?
A-Rod followed up his first interview with a press conference at the Yankees’ spring training complex. Here he provided more details, mostly along the order of “the dog ate my homework,” only for A-Rod it was the story of how his unnamed cousin – surely the stars of this drug-related “Dumb and Dumber” – injected him for three years with something available OTC in the Dominican Republic (it turns out – schock! that the substance was not available in the DR OTC, by the way). He wasn’t sure they were using it right or even if he realized any benefit from using the substance, but he continued getting shots from My Cousin Vinny for three years.
Why should we believe Alex Rodriguez now? Unless he pledges to take drug tests randomly and make the results public each time so we know he’s clean. Meanwhile, whatever A-Rod allegedly took is illegal. Was it banned at the time? Well, it was illegal, and shouldn’t that be enough?
Why do we care if athletes want to abuse their bodies? After all, isn’t their intention to perform better so their team can win and they can become champions? They are willing to risk it all in the long term for short term results. Isn’t that their prerogative? If so, why does it bother us?
Because they cheat. Because they lie. And because, as a society, we feel let down. Our standards are falling. People can cheat and lie, later admit it and we are supposed to forgive them for the transgressions because they finally spoke the truth.
Unfortunately, I can’t be so forgiving. But what I can do, from now on, is never believe anyone who denies doing something wrong, says he is sorry he did something wrong and that he/she will never do it again. I won’t believe anyone from now on.
*“I've been made blue
I've been lied to…”
When A-Rod took his performance-enhancing drugs and lied about it and then admitted it, he took away my inherent belief in the good of people. Now I feel stupid and naïve. And isn’t that a shame?
*Linda Ronstadt – “When Will I Be Loved?”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Going Bananas - January, 2009
I believe that deep down we are all seeking perfection in something. The perfect date. The perfect mate. The perfect weather, the perfect haircut. Remember when Barbara Walters interviewed Monica Lewinsky and all people talked about afterwards was her perfect lipstick? There’s a nail salon near me called ”Perfection Nails.” All those things would be great. And as a perfectionist myself – typos in these essays notwithstanding – I am seeking something more: The perfect banana.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
Now don’t start getting all Freudian on me, because this quest is about the fruit and nothing but the fruit, so help me God. And if you chose to read beyond this point, good for you, because this is an essay about the perfect banana. After all, bananas in concept are practically perfect. They contain potassium, which allegedly provides health benefits. If you get cramps in your legs, eat more bananas. They don’t have many calories, and they are neatly wrapped and portable, so you can grab one and go (I keep the plastic bags from the newspaper so I can toss in the peels). Just don’t abuse them in the transit mode or you’ll be that much further from perfection by adding bumps and bruises. You can eat them plain, sans any accoutrements, use them on cereal or as the centerpiece of a banana split.
I had a perfect banana once at a video shoot in Princeton. Even as I ate it, I knew. I knew it would be nearly impossible to find another banana so perfect. It was long and firm, perfectly shaped and completely devoid of brown spots. I want my banana ripe enough to be able to peel it without any trouble, but if it is too easy, it is probably too ripe. I don’t want the peel green, but if it has any number of brown spots, it’s not my kind of banana. That doesn’t mean it is bad or that I won’t eat it, just that it is not perfect. I’m not a banana bread person, so I’m not going to save brown bananas for that purpose. I don’t want to eat banana cream pie or banana bread or anything banana-flavored. Just the banana and nothing but the banana.
My quest for perfection takes me to the produce department of virtually any supermarket. Perfection might just be lurking at the end of the aisle, right? Wrong, if I seek it at Shop-Rite, otherwise known as the cultural center of my town (where your chances of running into someone you know increase exponentially depending on how bad you look that day). Shop-Rite serves up its bananas in plastic bags. The poor bananas, unable to breathe, break out into a warm sweat. As I liberate them from this plastic prison, in my mind I hear the song “Born Free” playing. When I announced I was retiring and people asked me what I planned to do with all that free time, I wanted to say that I planned to hang out in the produce section and free all the bananas from their slimy state. I believe that no good can come from the banana-plastic relationship.
Another reason NOT to buy bananas encased in plastic bags is that I live alone. I don’t want to buy a bunch of bananas, all in the same stage of banana life. I can’t eat that many, and the rest will rot. What I want – and what I get because I dare to defy the rules by opening the bags – is two green bananas and two ripe bananas. You can’t get two different-aged bananas in a single bunch, and from a slimy bunch, at that. Bagged bananas are far from my quest for perfection, so my search continues.
Stop and Shop is a better banana environment. The bananas there not only are born free, but they seem to roam freely through the store. You can find them in the produce aisle, on stands near the registers and the Nilla wafers and hanging in small bunches in various aisles in the store. The only problem there is quantity. If I only want two, sometimes I can’t hang the bunch back on the hook after making my selection. But I notice they seem to be less brown and more firm, key factors in my quest.
I don’t want to pursue perfection through every store, though I will feel triumphant if and when I find the perfect banana. I think it was what Bono had in mind when he and U2 wrote “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” If I find a perfect banana someday, somewhere, my life will have purpose. Of course, once I eat the perfect banana, the quest begins anew.
What's On? - February, 2008
“What are you watching?” my favorite sister inquired one night.
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
“I’m switching back and forth between the Soul Train Music Awards, a salute to George Gershwin on PBS and a Yankee game,” I replied.
Yes, my taste in television is more than a little eclectic. At any given time I’m as likely to be watching a documentary on the Kennedy assassination as “Make Me a Supermodel.” When I hear people say, “There’s nothing on,” I always think. “Not for me.” If there is a show about building a cruise ship, a basketball game (I watched five last Sunday) or a new episode of “Men in Trees,” I’m set.
So for me, there is a lot on television, but it is getting harder to figure out what is on where. While there are far more channels, the choice of programming has become stranger and more disconnected from the original intent of the network broadcasting it.
Take, for instance, the Biography Channel, where you can watch four hours a day of “Murder, She Wrote” with only an occasional interruption for a bio of an important historical figure – say, Bruce Willis. Is this the Angela Lansbury Channel? (By the way, if you really can’t get enough of “Murder, She Wrote,” you can also catch it on the Hallmark Channel. There must be some real die-hard Angela Lansbury fans out there for this show to air so often each day.)
My impression of the venerable National Geographic magazine, the august, yellow-rimmed journal showing outstanding photography of far-flung locations and people, doesn’t exactly match the National Geographic Channel. Instead, in addition to actual programs about exotic locations, we are treated to “Outlaw Bikers – Hell’s Angels,” “Bounty Hunters” and a variety of programs about prisons.
Of course, MTV years ago stopped showing music except on off-hours, instead presenting a range of so-called reality shows where an entire subculture of “stars” is established and recycled through “Real World,” “Road Rules,” and the “Real World-Road Rules Challenge.” I can’t help but wonder: Is being a participant on a reality TV show now a bona fide profession? Some of these people either have very understanding employers with generous sabbatical policies or they get paid to wander from show to show, competing in a series of odd physical challenges that have nothing to do with “Music TV.”
MTV isn’t the only confusing channel. The Country Music Channel’s “Trick My Truck” takes a page from MTV’s “Pimp My Ride,” in performing extreme makeovers on vehicles. And what does this have to do with country music, I wonder. No more than VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew” or the same network’s “Celebrity Fit Club,” which features has-beens and people you never heard of trying to lose weight and regain whatever show biz career they apparently once had.
Headline News no longer dishes out news headlines, instead featuring a bunch of programs that blur the concept of news. The Discovery Channel has “Dirty Jobs,” where poor host Mike Rowe (featured in a series of TYLENOL commercials over the years) is asked to take on the kind of jobs you can’t imagine someone else doing but are glad they’re not your job. Try sweeping up at a zoo, making pots out of cow pies or making roof shingles for a living. This is Discovery?
The Travel Channel sometimes takes me to exotic locations and on beautiful cruise ships. But the same channel can spend a day televising a bunch of men in a room playing poker. I guess the tie-in is that the players had to travel to get there.
Even A&E – the Arts and Entertainment channel – no longer bears much resemblance to either art or entertainment. Really, does anyone want to watch “Parking Wars,” a program about people trying to find or fighting over a parking spot? Or how about “Airline,” where in every show someone is bound to miss a connecting flight?
American Movie Classics no longer limits its showings to “Citizen Kane” and movies of that ilk. You can often find a recent comedy with Martin Lawrence when you are really in the mood for a Humphrey Bogart classic.
Some networks have gone the route of changing their names to more closely match the content. Court TV is now “Tru,” which doesn’t make it any more credible to me. Is Tru true? Somehow, I doubt it.
And could someone please tell the Weather Channel that we don’t need to see shows on how weather affected history? I just want to know how much snow we are going to get.
As far as I can tell, only Animal Planet lives up to its name, broadcasting programs that feature animals around the clock – or at least until the infomercials take over in the wee hours.
Thank goodness I have my fallbacks; as long as I can watch anything on Home & Garden, the Food Network or a game (substitute baseball in the non-basketball season), I always have something to watch.
I’m not saying that all of this stuff isn’t interesting to someone, but consider this an advisory: Don’t judge a cable network by its name if you are trying to figure out “what’s on?”
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