CHARISMATIC MEGAFAUNA

By Quiconque

Turn on the Radio, Nah F*** It, Turn It off!

As you may have read in my last entry, my TV is broken. Those of you who know me realize what a tragedy this is for me. I only got reception on 2 � channels, and I mainly watched talk shows, cartoons, and teen angst on the WB, occasionally switching to costumed period dramas on PBS whenever channel 11 aired infomercials or religious programming. Even so, the TV was always on. It was my companion.

Until very recently, I still used the 13-inch set I had from college. It had a smiley-face sticker covering a hole I burned through the top of the set. (A word of advice, only burn incense cones on non-meltable surfaces. The lit cone slipped into the TV set, and Ashy and I just looked at each other dumbly, hoping the thing wouldn�t light the TV ablaze. You can send your kid to an expensive elite university, but you can�t stop her from doing really stupid shit.) My little TV had knobs and rabbit ears. My 9-year-old godson didn�t understand how to turn it on. But I loved that TV, and then one day everyone on my little set turned blue and orange, and the picture suddenly was in letterbox format, and I knew that my little friend was in its death throes.

I inherited an obscenely large set from our next door neighbor, the late Mrs. Jimmy. This set has a remote control. Now I no longer have to walk 6 feet from the bed to change the channel. What luxury! And the screen, man, it is big. It was like my TV friends were really in the room with me. Some mornings I felt like I could just reach out my hand and catch the mardi gras beads being flung back and forth on the Jerry Springer Show. And then, last week, I lost audio reception. I can still see my TV friends, but all I hear is static.

I can�t live like that. To see my friends and not know what they are saying is too painful to me. So, I turned off the TV. And because I cannot bear to be alone with myself in complete silence, I am forced to listen to the radio. I live in an underground cave, which limits my radio reception. The only station I get is the main top-40 station that broadcasts "from the top of the Empire State Building." You know which one.

As much as I love the TV, that is how much I hate the radio. I used to pride myself on not listening to the radio. I would parade my ignorance of pop music like a badge of honor. By limiting myself to my CD collection, I listened only to what I wanted. So, unlike the rest of the country, I never felt that Outkast�s "Hey Yah" was overplayed, because I only heard it when I chose to. Yes, I was a little behind the times, and I had to rely on my Amazon.com recommendations (usually wrong) to learn about new music, but I was happy.

Now, after a week of listening to the radio, I know things that fill me with self-hatred and shame. For example, I know that this ditz�s younger, less-talented (Can such a thing be? Oh my, yes!) sister came out with an album of bitter songs about how hard it is to be the younger, less-talented sister of a famous busty ditz. I know that, at least for Eminem, the past tense of �succumb� is �succame.� I can now tell the difference between a Hilary Duff song and an Avril Lavigne song. I know that someone who sings even worse than Madonna is remaking Madonna�s old songs.

I�m trying to see the very tiny bright side in all this. Perhaps God in his Infinite Wisdom has decided that I need to take a break from the TV and write that dissertation everyone�s been hearing about for the past 10 years. I�m willing to accept this. However, if my brain keeps filling up with useless pop music knowledge, there will be no room left for the social science. I need a radio lobotomy and a good TV repairperson.
|

LINKS

DIARYRINGS

READING: The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo.

WATCHING: Nothing! That is the problem.