Story 137: Hate-Watchers Anonymous

            The members of the group sat in a shame circle; the moderator spoke first.

          “I know we were relegated to the bingo hall’s sub-basement because we don’t represent a quote-unquote ‘legitimate addiction,’ but I want you all to be proud of yourselves for recognizing that your obsession is just as destructive as any condition recognized by the American Psychological Association.  Now, let’s begin by introducing ourselves: my name is Zack, and I am a recovering hate-watcher of that old classic, Space Opera Grit.”

            “Hi, Zack.”

            “Hi, everyone.  Thank you for coming here tonight.  As you may already know but I’m going to tell you anyway, the reason why I formed this group is because I wanted to help others who feel just as trapped as I once did: trapped, in a neverending cycle of seasonal television, despairing as your favorite show’s quality declines exponentially as the years drag on, yet always coming back for more each week.  I would literally pray for the show’s cancellation, knowing full well that that would put those on it out of work, but I was comforted in the knowledge that they too were hoping for cancellation – it’s clear as day when they make public appearances that by Season 8 their hearts were no longer in it.  The show’s still on the air, but I was finally released from my all-encompassing burden when the season finale of its fifteenth year ended in disaster.  As I sat in my living room staring at the credits of lost souls scroll by at the speed of light, I suddenly realized: no one is actually making me watch this garbage.  So I just never watched it again.  I wished I’d had a group like this seven years ago – would’ve saved me a lot of time and angst – so let’s get started.  Who’d like to go first?  You?  OK, what’s your name?”

            “Martha, and I’m a hate-watcher of Psychopathic Family of 10.”

            “Hi, Martha.”

            “And why do you consider yourself a hate-watcher, Martha?”

            “Well, the premise is rubbish and I only started watching it because I like the lead actress – ”

            “Ohhhh.”

            “And it was funny.  In the beginning.”

            “Go on.”

            “You know how it is: the lead is also one of the producers, and they always turn evil at some point if they weren’t already.  By Season 3, the magic had died.”

            “And that’s usually the point where the magic starts for a lot of shows.”

            “In this case, it just got unfunnier, and uncomfortably frantic, and it treats its audience like idiots.”

            “No!”

            “Yes!  I feel so ashamed in paying those people’s salaries in any way!”

            “There, there, Martha – you’re among friends now.  So who’s next?”

            “I’ll go.  My name’s Josh, and I’m a hate-watcher of Sword Slash.”

            “Hi, Josh – what?!”

            “We do not judge here, people!  But seriously, Josh, how can you hate-watch Sword Slash?  If you’re even watching it to begin with, you have to like it at least a little.”

            “Yeah, I did for a while, but the gratuitous violence and unnecessary nudity do nothing for the plot or for me anymore.”  There were rumblings in the group.  “I’m sorry, but it feels like they’re trying way too hard to get my 18- to 34-year-old straight male demographic attention, and all I want is a well-developed story and realistic characters!”

            “You make some excellent points there, Josh.  If I may ask: how come you keep watching it, then?”

            “Gotta find out how it ends.”

            “OK, who’s next?”

            “Hello, my name is Jessica, and I’m a hate-watcher of Retroville.”

            Everyone else murmured in sympathy.

            “That show’s still on?”  Zack asked.

            “Unfortunately, yes.  For 17 years.”

            “Wow, you have endurance.  I had started watching it but I couldn’t get past the first half of Season 2.”

            “Most people couldn’t.”

            “Do you know why you’re still watching it?”

            “Because I’m no quitter!”

            “Well, Jessica, quitting can be a good thing when the item in question is destroying you.  Maybe there’s still something decent about the show?”

            “No, it’s absolute tripe!  The writing is disgusting, the acting is somnambulatory, the scenery is horrendous, the camera angles are atrocious, and the music is banal!”

            “…I see.  Maybe you should trying replacing it with Sword Slash instead?”

            “No!”  Josh screamed and had to be restrained by other group members.  “Don’t let it claim another victim!  I won’t let it win!”

            “Why don’t they just cancel PFO10 already?”  Martha wailed.  “They must be losing money by now – what devil is renewing it year after year after year?!”

            A man stood.  “My name is Hamish, and I’m a hate-watcher of Comic Book Adaptation – I thought coming here would help me get over it, but all I know is that the new episode starts in five minutes so I’m going home to watch it and cry!”

            The rest of the group left in a flurry of overturned chairs; Zack remained, slumped in his.

            “They’ll be back,” he said to the empty room.  “Now that they started this, they can’t resist seeing how it will end.”

Story 136: Sir Cater of Pillar, Knight Errant

(An ode to the brave caterpillar who landed and held onto a speeding car)

Oh, I sing a tale

Of a knight in a dale

A noble warrior was he

His heart, it was true

And his skin, green and blue,

And his legs numbered 13 and three,

And three,

And his legs numbered 13 and three.

Sir Cater was his name

And great was his fame

In the land of Pillar and beyond.

One day at King’s behest

He embarked upon a quest

To cross the Ocean of Pond,

Of Pond,

To cross the Ocean of Pond.

Sir Cater, the Brave

Sir Cater, the Strong

Sir Cater, how art thou best.

You fight for your neighbor

And you fight for the stranger

Until that day you take your final rest.

His boat was a mighty frond

As he traversed the Ocean of Pond

To reach the Island Where Youth Is For Aye.

He braved winds, he braved waves,

He braved beasts, he braved knaves,

He nearly sank, but made the shore by and by,

By and by,

He nearly sank, but made the shore by and by.

Sir Cater, the Wise

Sir Cater, the Just

Sir Cater, you are almost there.

Your journey was long

But if you only remain strong

Your reward will have no compare.

He mounted the shore

And began to explore

The Island Where Youth Is For Aye.

He knew not why he had been sent

Only that King was insistent

That he discover on his own the reason why,

The reason why,

That he discover on his own the reason why.

He realized at the last

That his final task

Was to prepare for transformation

Into a Winged Knight

One who would take flight

As Defender of the Realm and of the Nation,

Of the Nation,

As Defender of the Realm and of the Nation.

He ascended The Tree

And dangled from its knee

And cocooned himself from rain and from gust

And he changed, and he grew,

Great things were in store, he knew,

As he slept the sleep of the just,

Of the just,

As he slept the sleep of the just.

Sir Cater of Pillar

Your journey has ended

Your life is no longer the same

Your future is bright

You emerge a new knight

And Sir Butter of Fly is your name.

Story 135: Off Season

            “Why are you going to The Shore now?” he asked with capital letters.  “Nothing is open and you’ll be bored as a gourd!”

            “Don’t you see, this is the perfect time to go!” she argued as she backed out of the driveway in her car that literally was bursting with her luggage.  “No crowds, free parking – free beach!”

            “Freezing beach, you mean!” he shouted at the retreating car as it sped away – he caught a glimpse of a waving hand before everything vanished in the glow of the rising sun.

            Two hours later, she arrived at the southernmost tip of The Shore: a cute little town so old that the whole thing had been preserved in formaldehyde.  She made sure to gaze at the retro houses she normally crawled by in traffic jams each summer, taking advantage of the view now unencumbered by thronging hordes of tourists.  Parking in a random spot on the street just because, she basked in the glow of the flashing parking meter and took a few moments to truly listen to the glorious, impeccable silence.

-                       -                       -                       -                       -                       -

            Back in the car, she headed over to the converted-mansion motel, easily finding a space in the lot because she was the only guest.  Most motels in this town would not remain open in January; however, several such as this one had the foresight to know that there always will be a demand once it is seen that the place is open.

            The pool was covered, the sauna was boarded up, the elevators were cordoned off, and there was no heat, but she refused to care.  Peace, quiet, and frigid sea air would be worth any sacrifice, and she was bound and determined to prove that thesis.

            Only one restaurant on the block was open and the lone employee took an hour to catch and prepare her cod dinner, but that just added to the authenticity of the locale.  Ice cream would have been the perfect topper to the meal; she settled for the after-dinner mint.

            She had decided long ago to spend the entirety of the following day on the beach because it was free, and also because it was free (she had a thing for free, and the fees during the summer were in the double-digits).  No other human being was in sight as she planted her umbrella and bundled up in her blankets to stretch out in her lounge chair.  The roaring waves provided a good show and the passing dolphins took turns between laughing in her direction and giving her concerned looks.  The members of the last pod almost beached themselves in order to drive her farther inland just before a blizzard hit – man’s best friend indeed, she grumbled as she gathered her drenched self and belongings and trudged back to the motel while the snowfall accumulated around her.

            After the plows cleared the streets the next morning, she went on her excursions: however, the miniature golf courses, nature trails, and jet ski rentals all were scheduled to open in four months.  The boardwalk itself was open, except in the places where the boards had been pried up to cover the arcades, food courts, and shops (she did manage to sneak in a ride on the swings in the amusement park section, but what fun is swinging yourself over an empty park with no one to match you scream-for-scream?).  The local mall was up and running, but you see one T-shirt/key chain/candle/Christmas tree ornament, you’ve seen them all.  Besides, she did not come to The Shore to Shop – she came to Experience, and Experience she would, even if it was a bit lacking.

            Packing up her car, she bade farewell to the wintry sea as she began her trek back to the humdrum suburb from whence she came.  She would refuse to admit to anyone that they were right about how shut down everything was; however, she was comforted knowing that, for two days, she had ruled a ghost town.