I have a confession to make, one that I know could cause me a
certain loss of esteem in the community, assuming that is
possible.
I have a confession to make, one that I know could cause me a certain loss of esteem in the community, assuming that is possible. Nonetheless, I can no longer pretend that the truth is not gnawing at me, begging to come out and be seen for what it is.
I do not love Raymond.
I know, the name of the show plainly says “Everybody,” but for some reason I, and perhaps I alone, was not consulted. Had I been, I would have straightforwardly informed them that my feelings for Raymond do not even rise to the level of mild affection, but tragically I was left out of the loop. The burden of responsibility for a major national television show bearing an inaccurate title all because of little old me is no day at the beach, let me tell you. And it gets even worse.
I did not love Lucy.
Now, this is the one that will shoot my name to the top of John Ashcroft’s list of Godless unpatriotic threats to America by providing aid and comfort to all the haters of our sacred freedom and democracy, many of whom a slight majority of the CIA is pretty sure, on the basis of sketchy evidence admittedly subject to several interpretations, also did not love Lucy. I’ll forward my Guantanamo Bay post office address as soon as I am allowed one.
Nonetheless, even as a small child I was not moved to cherish the lady with the orange fright-wig hairdo and a voice that, if someone accidentally turned the volume up too high, sometimes caused the paint on our living room walls to blister. All America it seemed was enchanted by the endless travails of Lucy and Ricky and Fred and Ethel, but not me. For that I’m sure I still bear scars that could make a therapist rich.
The pattern has continued even to this day. I have never seen an episode of “Friends”; In fact, I haven’t watched a single sitcom since “Fraser” went lame a few years back. I have never seen a reality show – not the Survivors, not The Bachelor nor The Bachelorette nor the Rich Guy and the Golddigging Women nor the Poor Guy and the Rich Women nor the Ugly Guys and the Pretty Woman nor the Old Guy and the Young Women nor the Gay Guy and the Other Gay Guys nor any of the other permutations and combinations of people whose shows I see advertised every six minutes when the tube is on.
I have retreated into the Science Channel, the Discovery Channel and the History Channel, where none of the people, animals, planets or natural phenomena would be caught dead loving Lucy. I have become proudly, rebelliously devoted to the kind of shows that when my wife sees what I’m watching she rolls her eyes and quicksteps from the room. My shows test the waters of boredom and not infrequently sink beneath the waves, but I don’t care – I revel in their arcana, I am exhilarated by the obscurity of their topics. I love shows like the one I saw recently in which a scientist set out to become the first person to sight a live giant squid, and after an action-packed hour of looking at an enormous amount of ocean he utterly failed to sight anything at all. Now that’s a reality show.
Memo to CBS: If you want to avoid litigation for false advertising, you would be well-advised to change the name of your show to “Everybody But Mitchell Loves Raymond.”
Now that I’ve come clean, it’s your turn.
