Mon., May 24, 1999

"Imagine with me, if you will, a world in which Attila's agoraphobia kept him inside his tent, Genghis Khan's fear of horses permitted him to get no further than the distance he could walk, Jack the Ripper's fainting at the sight of blood nudged him into accepting a job in a thimble factory, Hitler's dread of public speaking kept him locked up in his garret, the universal Japanese fear of flying rendered any attack on Pearl Harbor a mad pipe dream, and Oswald's fear of heights kept him away from all open windows save those ventilating a basement.  Imagine how different such a world would be from the one we seem to be stuck with.  Imagine now how much brighter the future can yet be rendered, if only we can summon the will to force our leaders, doctors, and teachers to take the steps necessary to bring it about." - Johnella Kidman, "Better History Through Increased Neurosis", p.1
 

    As first reported in an exclusive paragraph written here on Saturday, yesterday was play day for me.  That is to say, I went to see a play, and here's the ticket stub to prove it:

A fine time was had by all - or at least by me, which probably amounts to the same thing  since I suspect that everyone else there were merely characters in one of my more realistic reveries.  It was so realistic, in fact, that my wife actually fell asleep twice - high praise for any work of art, indeed, as her responses to my own writing has repeatedly proved in the past.  If you get the chance to see "Picasso at the Lapin Agile" yourself, jump at it - especially if you've never seen Elvis perform in a 1904 French cafe before.

     I know, I know - a ticket stub is pretty slim proof that I actually had an out-of-house experience.  Especially considering that between 1982's "Tootsie" and 1996's "Star Trek: First Contact" I was simply too sane to set foot inside a darkened theater.  Now, however, I am able to once again enjoy the common pleasure of spending extended periods of time watching stultifying fictions in the company of obnoxious strangers, screaming babies, and  Christopher Walkin's 3-foot wide nostrils - thank you, Prozac!
    As always seems to be the case, this particular out-of-house experience began with a journey down a tunnel/hallway towards a white rectangular light/doorway, then my sudden emergence into an incredible world of brightness/sunlight where oddly dressed people/gang members welcomed me with open arms/car honks and I was reunited with my ancient ancestors/primordial slime under the theater seats.  I look forward to doing it all again someday, especially if the particular Valhalla I've apparently been assigned to go to after this worldly house of mine is dead and buried enlarges its parking lot.

    In the meantime, there's always the VCR.  Have you heard about these miracle devices which allows you to see endless spews of Coming Attractions while in the discomfort of your own home?  It was on one of these devices (my own, in fact) that I recently watched "Pleasantville."
    "Pleasantville" is the enjoyable tale of two '90s kids suddenly transported back into a 1950's style TV sitcom, leaving only about 110,566,403 kids for us to still have to work around at the malls.  It has many other things to recommend it as well, but my favorite is the brief scene in which the '90s girl goes to the sitcom world's rest room, opens a stall door and finds - nothing.  Well, actually, a bare tile floor, but no toilet.  What a marvelous moment!
    And although I'm tempted to make a crack here about how no sitcom before "All In The Family" could show or make reference to a toilet because they were all being used to swallow up the residual shit of the Eisenhower years, I'd rather embark on a boring little story which illustrates why this was such a marvelous moment for me.

    Between 1964 and 1968 one of my favorite shows to watch was ABC's Sunday night loose adaptation of "Hamlet" entitled Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea.  Richard Basehart starred as Admiral Nelson, David Hedison co-starred as Captain Crane, and both seemed forever stuck aboard a submarine called the Seaview (apparently because Oceanspray had already been taken by a juice company).  Although I'd immediately pegged Hedison as one of this or any other century's greatest actors, subsequent events were to reveal that that honor actually belonged to Dark Shadow's Jonathan Frid, proving once and for all that the Academy Awards people aren't the only ones capable of jumping to egregious conclusions when it comes to flaming thespians.  
    In one Voyage episode (I've repressed which), there was a scene of Admiral Basehart sitting alone at his desk, working.  Suddenly he gazed up into the middle distance, a look of consternation crossed his face, and he got up and walked out through a small side door of his cabin.  The oddly uncurious camera didn't follow him.  Instead, there was a complete change of scene to some unrelated matter, perhaps Capt. Crane trying to explain to an irate network exec exactly how the broken body of David Hasselhoff got wrapped around the conning tower.  
    Still stuck on Nelson's actions, however, I turned to my mother (seated on the couch busily plucking her eyebrows as she did from 1954-1979) and exclaimed, "I wonder where he's going!"
    "Probably to take a crap," she informed me without looking up from her mirror.
    "Well, why don't they show that?" I innocently asked.
    "Now, watching someone take a goddamn crap wouldn't be very nice, would it?" she attempted to enlighten me.
    "Have you seen any of the rest of the show?" I demanded to know.
    Bottom line: If Nelson/Basehart ever took a crap, I never saw it.  For all I knew, submariners were required to hold it until they returned to port.  This might be why I never even considered joining the U.S. Navy.  It might even be the reason the American public turned against the Vietnam War - the very idea, sending young men off someplace where they had to hold it for months, maybe years!
    There were no TV shows about the Russian Navy during the '60s I could check for comparison purposes, either.  Suspicious, isn't it?  Could it have been because the Reds' subs actually had bathrooms??  Was there a toilet gap which people like McNamara have managed to keep secret until this very day???
    If anyone knows how to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act, please let me know at your earliest convenience.

    But, I digress.  What I really want to confess before I end this entry is that I really am an utter, reckless daredevil on the weekends.  Going to a play and watching cutting edge TV shows are just two small symptoms.
    I also switch bed sides with my wife!
    Yes, it's true.  On work nights, she gets the easy-to-get-out-of east side.  On Friday and Saturday evenings, however, as midnight approaches and the wolfbane blooms, I relegate her to the hard-to-reach barrens of the west.
    People are inevitably amazed when I tell them this.  "Don't you ever get confused?!" they always want to know.  Well, sure.  More than once I've awakened at 3am Sunday morning with the menstrual cramps Fate meant for my wife, but that's a small price to pay for living on the edge.
    Soon even that danger will be a thing of the past.  Soon all those Global Positioning Satellites will be in place and I'll be able to know which side of the bed I'm on just by checking a special wristwatch (plus or minues 6 feet).
    Then just watch me go to town!
    Then just watch me let 'er rip!
    I'll be napping, I'll be lying down, I'll even be bouncing on "her" side of the bed whenever the spirit moves me.
    Even in the middle of the week.
    Ahhh, it's a great time to be alive, my friends.
    And the 21st century is yet to come!!

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(All Material Not An Obvious Rip-Off Of Some Other Aspect Of Western Civilization © 1999 by Dan Birtcher)