Sunday, January 25, 2015

Dear Television Theme Songs

There is a set way things tend to be done regarding theme songs.  In the sixties, theme songs were instrumental.  Seventies, rock songs.  Eighties spawned gleeful jangles most likened to radio jingles for the show, and the nineties were a strange amalgam of clips, whistles, and children screaming.  Then, when it got to the Aughts, you were allowed to experiment.  You had the laid back cool of The Sopranos, the vague unease of the Lost noise, the awesome of Tom Waits and Tom Waits covers on The Wire, and the brilliant instrumentals of The Office and Parks and Rec that convey the joy of the shows.  Somehow, in this renaissance, the worst theme song of television history was born and unleashed on the world. 

I'll take a moment, and assure the ladies in the audience that I am in NO WAY making fun of the show.  I know better than to do that, lest I be besieged in a fast talking flurry of hatred and obscure pop culture references.  Also, please remember, if you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you ever imagined.  Ok?  We good?, that song is the Gilmore Girls theme.  I've been subjected to this treacly monstrosity many times lately, and it never gets better.  It sounds like a nice old lady that just baked cookies for everyone, and she's singing while getting beaten with a sock full of kindness, gentility, and 1922 Liberty Head quarters.  Latin America can't produce as much sickly sweetness in a year as this song does in a minute.  It doesn't even qualify as a throwback to 80's shmaltz.  It's just ungodly, unjustifiably awful.  It is so bad it couldn't even be Steven Segal's theme song.

I haven't seen much of the show.  I assume it is some strange prequel to Supernatural, otherwise Jared Padalecki would have had nothing to do with it.  The more I thought about it, I became convinced this was a very elaborate, extremely lengthy Meta episode of Supernatural where Sam is posing as a teenager named Dean, and Dean is a hot thirty something single mom with an odd daughter that dates Sam/Dean.  For some reason they live in a town where it is perfectly acceptable for a grown man to wear a backwards baseball cap at all time (maybe this is Cass?), and no one is yet sick of Melissa McCarthy. If it isn't, I want the royalties when it gets made. 

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Dear Kali

There isn't much to do when you are stuck in the dentist's chair, waiting for the hygienist to come in and clean your teeth.  You can't have your phone on, and you'll do just about anything to not listen to the soft jazz playing over the sound system.  So, I looked around the office, trying to amuse myself.  There is only so much in the 180 degree view I have from the chair, so it wasn't hard to bypass the framed pictures of sailboats, schooners, and other things I can't afford because I'm not a dentist.  My eyes settled on a hand drawn picture from a child. This picture: 

It took me a couple a seconds to process what I was seeing.  Kali, a small red child, was obviously attacked by the dentist, who likes wearing human hearts on his smock to terrorize his victims.  Immediately, too many questions came to mind.  I have never seen a child in the office.  This is not a pediatric dentist office.  How did you get in here, and who are you working for?  How did you smuggle in crayons, because they don't have them here.  I know, I've asked. 

Once those were posed, my brain went further.  What have your parents done to you?  What kind of name is Kali?  Short for "Kali Ma You Have Sinned Against Shiva"?  Is Brittany not a good name anymore?  Susan, Betty, Jennifer, Flo?  Why Kali? 

Horrified, I saw what my mind had blocked out the first eighty times I read it.  It was too much to see that the picture was "Form Kali".  That one last thing would have broken me, so my mind made me see it say "From".  I also read it as Dentist, because the only thing I know that is called a Demtist is a lesser demon from hell that feeds on the fears of baby koalas. 

My mind wouldn't stop as the hygienist and dentist worked on my teeth.  It was exactly like sex: me lying motionless and confused while a woman pokes around in my mouth, a man watches, and Peabo Bryson plays softly in the background. 

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Dear Latin Food Aficionado

Punctual as always, I had arrived earlier than the two friends that I was meeting for dinner at a Latin food restaurant.  The ladies from the Cult of Too Much Perfume, Puffy Vests, and Fluffy Boots at the hostess station in front of me decided the best option would be to form a  barricade and not let anyone near the hostess.  I am infinitely patient, so I stood back and diligently waited for the hostess to return with her too short skirt and pale pale winter legs to guide them to their table and take my reservation. 

You straggled in, comb-over plastered to your scalp, and assessed the situation.  Clearly, these ladies were the only real customers.  I was simply standing behind them, hoping to grope them, or maybe kidnap them all if all of the other 100 or so other diners should look away and provide me a chance.  You eyed me up and down, I looked at you and nodded, and you stepped through a newly opened gap in the Puffy Blockade and told the hostess you wanted a table for three.

Normally, I might let this go, but for three things.  This restaurant was very crowded, and that table of three, exactly what I wanted, might be the only thing available.  Secondly, one of my dining companions was pregnant, so I wasn't going to have her wait.  Lastly, you looked me right in the eye and then tried to dick me over, and that doesn't play.

"Hey, thanks pal.  I wasn't waiting", I told you.  You turned and stared at me, nervously.  Maybe you thought I would have left it alone, that I don't like confrontation.  Terrorists live on fear, after all, so you didn't know how to function in its absence.  You stammered out, "I...I..uh..didn't see you there."

"You mean when you looked right at me?  You didn't see me then?"

Logic befuddled you more and you simply stammered.  The hostess didn't care.  She started to take you back to a table. At this point, you finally decided to do something honorable.

"He can have the table" you muttered.

"No, please" I said, "You wanted it bad enough to push in.  Take it."

And you did.  You walked right after her and sat down without waiting for the other two in your party.  The two in my party had showed up just in time for my last words to you, and wanted to know what I had done now. 

It wasn't me though, because once you were seated, you wandered back to where we stood, and feebly tried to tell us all, "I didn't see him there."  That's like missing a wall, jackass.  Luckily she sat us, and I walked away from you.  Muttering to those around you and looking confused might be how you usually get what you want, but when someone calls you on it, just gracefully bow out.  You know you were being a prick, so just own up to it. 

Sunday, January 4, 2015

Dear Pants

Why can't you ever fit right?  I want to blame the Big Belt Consortium for furthering their propaganda, but it goes much higher than that.

Pants from one company in one size fit differently than pants from a different company in the same size.  If I find a pair of pants that fit my waist, they never have a long enough inseam.   If you want to buy a pair of Levis, not only are there thirty some odd different styles, but there are just as many shades of blue.  Good luck finding the combination you want between size, length, style, and color, especially when you are size 36/34.  Apparently everyone that needs a 34 inseam has a size 46 or higher waist, according to the Pants Barons. 

I thought I was past this.  I bought ten pairs of cargo shorts on sale in 1998, thinking I was done buying pants forever, and now everyone laughs at me and asks why I need so many pockets.  I just can't escape it. 

I think Brainiac says it best in the clip below.