I haven’t felt much like writing these past few days. I’m depressed.
Am I suffering from a severe case of election day blues?* No. I’m afraid this goes much deeper than politics.
Does it have to do with my not getting to take Charlotte trick or treating this year, because she spent Halloween with her dad? Not likely. I’ve had ample time to get over that disappointment, and my kid has assured me that she somehow managed to have a great time in my absence, which was somehow comforting to me.
By eliminating the possible causes I just mentioned, I’ve figured out what’s actually been gnawing at me. It happened on Monday morning. Let’s go there now, shall we?
Monday, November 3rd – D-DAY
Michael has the day off from work and he’s sitting in the den watching TV Land. I’ve just returned from driving Charlotte to school and I greet him (as usual) by plopping down on his lap.
I notice he’s watching a rather surreal episode of “Happy Days.” In it we see the entire cast being led by Anson Williams in an upbeat song about the human heart and arteries. Pump, pump, pump that blood. Pump that blood indeed! It’s a “Happy Days” celebration of the circulatory system! So, after I asked Michael to assure me that I was still awake and hadn’t fallen asleep in traffic after all, I got up and made coffee.
I should have stayed away from the television, considering the way the Happy Days episode had effected me, but I didn’t. On any other day, I wouldn’t need to fear being confronted with “The Brady Bunch” because, after three to five minutes of TV Land nostalgia, Michael would have switched the television back to the Sci-fi channel, which is where our tv remains 99% of the time.
So, with coffee in hand, I ventured into the den again, only to see Greg Brady on the screen, smoking a cigarette and coughing. The camera pans off to Jan and Cindy who have obviously witnessed the whole despicable act and are busy exchanging high-pitched expressions of shock and disbelief. Gaging by their reactions, you might guess they are watching their brother perform fellatio on some sleezeball in an attempt to score some crack.
Cindy – Look Jan! Ith greg! Whath he got in his mouth?!
Jan – Is that a cigar he’s smoking?
Cindy – No thath not a thigarette or a thigar! Ith a drug dealer! Oh my! We have to tell Mom and Dad!!!
But, this was, after all, just a cigarette, though you’d certainly never know it by witnessing their classic Brady overreactions.
I was appalled yet engrossed, and although all my instincts told me to run, I couldn’t bring myself to move away from the set. So, I’m watching helplessly as the story on the screen continues to unfold.
It seems that the evil boys who coerced Greg to smoke are forming a band and want the Gregster to be in it. (This band, although I never saw them, must be the stuff nightmares are made of. I say this because the dialogue strongly implies that Greg is their first choice. Think about it.)
The scene that follows is one that will be etched in my brain forever. Greg is playing an acoustic guitar and singing a song to Peter and Bobby. I’d call it a folk song except that sorting it into a musical category would convey upon it a certain dignity that it doesn’t deserve.
It goes a little something like this:
“Clowns never laughed before
Beanstalks never grew
Ponies never ran before
Till I met yooou…”
Rather than shouting out, “Mom, Greg’s making fun of retarded people!” or beating him into submission with his own guitar, Bobby and Peter respond to this vocal ickiness by smiling widely and sharing glances like lovers from their respective bunk-beds. Then they turn their homo-erotic attention and admiration back to Greg who apparently sparked this incestuous love triangle with his jamming tune about ponies and beansta
I suppressed a scream, struggled to find my legs again, and bolted from the room. But I had already been infected, so I might as well have watched it to the bitter end.
Why, TV Land, why? Why would you do this to me? My life was good once and now – well, now I can’t help feeling like… uh, like clowns have never laughed and beanstalks have never grown.
This is much worse than that “not so fresh feeling.” A few sprays of feminine deodorant won’t take the stink off of you after “The Brady Bunch” lifts its tail in your direction.
So, I’m off to buy tomato juice to get the smarmy off. Wish me luck.
*I hate making decisions to begin with. Add in that I’m stuck choosing the lessor of two evils. Then stir in the knowledge that, chances are, my guy is going to lose anyway and…Hey! Where’d all my serotonin go?!