by Larry Doyle
• Bud Couchpotato, a rising star at the Institute, and someone with whom Zenith shared a kind of David-Maddie sexual tension/intense hatred, both on-campus and off. Couchpotato was currently experimenting with transferring film to video and back to film again, repeatedly, for reasons he had yet to make clear.
• Hanna Barbara DePatie-Freleng-Merrymelodies, a fortysomething woman who Zenith secretly suspected was her mother, on the basis of peripheral glimpses she had caught of her during commercial breaks throughout her childhood.
• And, finally, Quasar Qualitygoesinbeforethenamegoeson, who, though nearly 50 in this 18–34 game, had managed to maintain his sharpness and contrast. It was he who had successfully cracked the Minimum-Comedies Situation (a perplex on a par with the Four-Color Theorem in mathematics), proving that all situation comedies could be deconstructed into five basic plots, rather than the six previously believed the minimum.
“Yer late!” La Mastersvoice barked, hitting the mute button to command Zenith’s full attention. “We were rilly hoping to wrap this up in time for Jeopardy!”
“I know I’m rilly rilly sorry,” Zenith replied, shaking her head and knocking bits of windshield loose. “But, like, I was shot at on the freeway and I—”
“You should make allowances for that kinda thing,” interrupted La Mastersvoice. “Now, let’s just have it, huh?”
“Yes, yes, yes, um—” Zenith said, trying to regain her vertical hold. “I’m like rilly honored—” said Zenith, bowling over the stage to let him have it, her dissertation and a shower of shatterglass.
“Yeh—” gruff La Mastersvoice, with the old academic brush-off and a shove of Zenith’s dissertation into the state-of-the-art vidsystem, which blipped the Big Screen then into the big bright face of Zenith Remotecontrol, looking considerably more poised and sheveled than she did just now, saying “I’m, like, rilly honored…”
Zenith sat beside herself, small hot and big cool, the hot bothered for she suspected her thesis, while high-concept, was not a this-crowd pleaser. Zenith’s thesis was this, that:
People watch way too much TV these days.
Heavy, talking-heady stuff, especially difficult to dissert in a fifteen-minute video, fersure, and yet a supposition Zenith hoped would as hosted by PBS’s Bill Moyers make low-calorie high-fiber good television. But the glazed look of the four in the front row told Zenith she was not yet mediuming her message.
And then, to her further horror, La Mastersvoice raised his arm and, taking jaded aim at her dissertation, pushed the fastforward button.
Eight years of study swirled by like a badly edited Emmy retrospective, La Mastersvoice slowing it only once, for a classic scene in which Beaver and Whitey discuss the old new math, chuckling, and then zapped Zenith’s academic career to an end.
In the deep dead air following, Zenith, going over her employment options, which were zip, stood awaiting the final credits.
After what seemed like miniseries, La Mastersvoice was heard: “Not bad. Coulda used more clips, but not bad atall.”
Zenith felt renewed, picked up for a full season, as La Mastersvoice looked casually left and right, and went on: “An’body else got anything to say?”
“I have a question,” a familiar voice descended from the dark back of the Viditorium.
Zenith squinted to make out the tall figure now dissolv—omigod!
It was a blast from her immediate past: the man on the freeway, still carrying the shotgun, which was the tipoff. But Zenith’s gasp was accompanied by at least three others.
“Great Caesar’s ghost!” said Qualitygoesinbeforethenamegoeson.
“T.V. Pychor!” bellowed La Mastersvoice.
“t.v.,” whispered Merrymelodies.
It was, in a sense, all three: Dr. T.V. Pychor, founder of the Institute and in fact the entire Telegenic Movement, the High Priest of Low Culture, the man about whom NBC’s Marshall McLuhan had said “T.V. is TV!,” the current academic world-record holder of longest sabbatical at seventeen years so far, additionally the one-time mentor and lover of a young graduate student named Hanna Barbara, and moreover—
“I have a question,” Pychor repeated. “Zenith, could you please name the Brady Bunch, in chronological order?”
“Greg, Marcia, Peter, Jan, Bobby, Cindy” came out of Zenith’s mouth before she could think.
“And now, in order of popularity, based on fan mail, average per week?”
“Greg, Jan,”—again, Zenith speaking before it occurred to her that “—daddy?”
“Hey there, Opie Dopie,” Pychor replied softly. “I came by to apologize for taking a shot at you on the freeway back there.”
But this bit of epiphany went entirely unnoticed by the others, spitting as they were out questions or fragments thereof as they scrappled up the aisle, bowing down before the Father of Videotics:
Where have you what have you been doing watching taping all my wonder years latenight with large ensemble dramedy Bochco primetime soap Tabloid TV declining network-shares and furthermore MTV heavy or lite Bud Melman? until all the questions trailed off into the expectant faces of five, now joined by Zenith: global-village elders gathered around their T.V. Pychor.
“Wish I could help you,” Pychor beamed back, “but my old thirteen-inch black-and-white blew out in ’86, so right now I’m into this Ginny Woolf thing—who, as Cyril Connolly says, can spin those cocoons of language out of, like, nothing.”
All together now their jaws dropped bwoing! to the floor in homage to the zanier alltoo infrequently broadcast Tex Avery cartoons.
Bliss
We Request the Honor of Your Presence at GywnnandDaveShareTheirJoy.com
You have reached Gwynn Paley and Dave Maguire’s Official Nuptials site. To continue, enter the GUEST ID and PASSWORD you received with your Wedding e-vitation. Please enjoy this short ad while the site loads.
Two blushing brides,
one rich, one poor,
both have their hearts set
on getting married at
the same romantic location.
On the same day.
Reese Witherspoon. Jennifer Lopez.
In love and at war
for:
The Wedding Pagoda
Opening June 14
Friends and Family (Who We Also Consider Friends)! I can’t tell you how excited Dave and I are that you’ll be able to join us as we Pledge our Love for years to come! Below you’ll find all the info you need to help us make this Occasion as Special and Perfect as we have planned.
GUEST POLICY
E-vites are for the Guest only; there is no “implied plus-one.” We’re sorry, but it’s a very small mountaintop, with limited ruins. We have gone to exhaustive lengths to achieve a proper mix of personalities, races, classes, ages, and orientations to ensure a Fun and Romantic Event for everybody. So don’t be at all surprised to find that your True Plus-One is already there! (Though just one plus-one per guest, please; do you hear me, Erika?)
We regret, too, the no-children rule. Some of us feel that Children bring nothing but Joy to all occasions; others feel differently, and this is a discussion we’ve agreed to table until a later time. (Not too much later! Tick tick tick…) If it’s any consolation, you’ll be sparing your Little Loved Ones many painful inoculations, and then there’s the whole child-slavery thing.
DIRECTIONS
Upon arriving at the Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Chávez, in Lima, look for the Aero Sendero Terminal. It’s a corrugated-metal shed, painted orange and possibly brown. Sendero, your pilot, should be there (he looks just like Erik Estrada, had things not gone so well for him). His Piper Apache is completely airworthy, and if it comes to that, somewhat seaworthy. After my father conducts a quick sobriety check, Sendero will wing you to a private airstrip on the shore of Lake Titicaca. From there, you’ll travel via balsa de tortoro, or reed boat, to the island of Amantaní. The voyage is quite Authentic and will take about eight hours. Once ashore, llamas will take yo
u up the mountainside of Pachatata (Father Earth), where you will be given a sleeping bag and assigned to a ruin.
A FEW TRAVEL TIPS:
• Do not let Sendero sell you any cocaine. We have made an exclusive arrangement with another supplier. Anybody wishing to partake of this indigenous fare must contact Dave’s brother Drake. If you fail to do so, we may find ourselves short a best man.
• Lake Titicaca is a sacred Incan site. Their god or something rose out of it. Mocking its name, or the name of nearby Lake Poopó, is considered incredibly rude and has resulted in spontaneous stabbings.
• Since Pachatata is 13,615 feet above sea level, you may not be able to breathe. We will have oxygen on hand, but in limited supplies, so, unless you are absolutely certain you are going to die, please be considerate of others.
• If you look directly at your llama, it will spit in your eyes.
THE CEREMONY
You will awaken at 2 A.M. (it’ll be too cold to sleep anyway) and llama it down Pachatata and then up Pachamama (Earth Mother). We should arrive at the peak between 4:30 and 5:30 A.M., depending on bandits, in time to witness the first light of the Solstice, at 5:58. The Incas believe if you stare into the sun as it rises on this day, you will be Reawakened to the Ancient Knowledge and Wisdom of the Cosmos. Hopefully, this will distract you from the sound of the seven llamas being slaughtered. (Some of you will have to walk back. Sorry.) Following a brief sacrifice to the Dragon Fertility Goddess (don’t tell Dave!), we will enjoy a traditional breakfast of cooked potatoes and mate de coca, which is basically boiled cocaine and which I’m told puts Starbucks to shame.
The ceremony will take place at High Noon, officiated by a Genuine Quechua Shaman and, at the insistence of Dave’s mom, Father Mulcahy, who has promised to keep his pagan comments to a minimum. First Shaman Klaatu will ritually purify the bride and groom (good luck with that!), followed by some Catholic Mumbo-Jumbo, and then we will exchange Personalized Vows written by me with input from Dave. In Andean tradition, the marriage will be sealed with an exchange of shoes (Luv those Incas!).
Two requests:
• In honor of the Emperial Kantuta, the sacred flower of the Incas, the bridesmaids will be dressed in tomato sateen, with the groomsmen wearing lemon velvet. Please avoid these color/fabric combos in your own ensembles.
• Our Ceremony was designed as a Spiritual and Romantic Once-in-a-Lifetime Chance for Heartfelt Reflection, and not as an opportunity to crack up Dave.
THE RECEPTION
The reception is scheduled for 4 P.M., or whenever the llamas are done. We ask that after the ceremony you gather as much firewood and wild potatoes as you can. In lieu of champagne, we will be serving chicha, made by the island’s women, who chew up corn and other things and spit it into an earthenware pot for fermenting. It takes a little getting used to, but consumed in vast quantities, as is the tradition, it can sneak up on you. Accordingly, the Shaman will remain on hand to perform additional marriages as necessary.
Music will be provided by ¡Zamponas!, a local pan-flute wedding band, playing Indigenous tunes as well as what sound like R&B hits from the ’70s. Do not request the “Macarena” unless you want to hear a lot of screaming about conquistadores sórdidos.
Unfortunately, Dave and I will have to leave the reception early in order to make our plane to the Galápagos. And please: if anybody ties beer cans to the back of our getaway llama, I will cry.
ONE FINAL REQUEST
A lot of hard work and patience and tears and sexual compromise went into making this a Wonderful Celebration of Love. This is the wedding I’ve dreamt about ever since studying pre-Columbian civilization in the fifth grade. If you cannot enjoy and experience it appropriately, I ask that you to strongly consider staying home with the rest of Dave’s buddies. (That doesn’t apply to you, Dave!)
The Babyproofer
The baby doesn’t like his flak jacket. It’s Kevlar, the lightest material capable of stopping a large-caliber bullet, but it’s awfully hot and it makes it hard for the little guy to sit up. Which is just as well, because a sitting baby, the babyproofer says, is a sitting duck.
We got our babyproofer through a friend, who came to visit after the baby was born and had a cow. There are so many dead babies in this house, she said, her fingers fluttering about. The wife got pretty upset, but this friend—really more my wife’s friend—caressed her head, blotted her cheeks, and said the important thing was that our baby wasn’t dead yet and there was still a chance we could stop the baby before he could kill himself.
The babyproofer cost seventy-five dollars an hour.
—There’s a dead baby, he said, not a foot in the door, re: the staircase. Then, in a bouncing gesture along the baseboard: dead baby, dead baby, dead baby … what is that?
—What, that penny?
—Dead baby.
Our poor baby died so many times during that initial consultation: 187, according to the babyproofer’s written assessment; it seemed like more. Dead baby in the toilet. Dead baby down the disposal. Dead baby with my scissors plunged into his carotid artery.
—Just curious, the babyproofer turned to me at one point. Did you want to have this baby?
The babyproofer needed a $10,000 retainer.
—For that kind of money, I said, just trying to lighten the mood a little, we could buy a whole new baby.
The wife did not laugh; the babyproofer stood up.
—I haven’t lost a baby yet, he said. But who knows, maybe I am a little overcautious. Why don’t you just buy one of those babyproofing books. They only cost about twenty bucks.
The babyproofer went through the initial ten grand rather quickly. In fairness, a lot of it was materials: 34 ceramic outlet guards @ $19.95 (the plastic ones, my wife agreed, weren’t darling and they leached a substance that caused fatty tumors in cancer-prone mice); 62 baby gates @ $39.95; 4 safes (pharmaceuticals, soaps and bath products; cleaning supplies; cooking and eating utensils; and assorted swallowables) @ $195. The Cuisinatal Food Reprocessor alone cost $3,000, but it does puree at twice the FDA’s shockingly lax standards and can strain out some of your larger, harmful bacterias. There was some debate in our house as to whether we really needed 6 baby dummies (@ $699 per!), but I suppose the wife is right: if even one of them is stolen it’s probably worth it.
Beyond the money, we’ve had to make a lot of adjustments, to create what the babyproofer calls a survival-friendly environment. Some of it makes sense, like not allowing anyone who has been to Africa, Southeast Asia, or Mexico into the house. But the hospital scrub-down before every diaper change seems excessive; it’s so heart-wrenching, with the baby crying the whole time. And I do miss TV—though not enough to come home one day and find my lazy, violent, obese baby with a television set toppled on his head.
The thing I hated most was getting rid of the dog, but what could I do? It kept tasting the baby.
I haven’t been sleeping much. I sit up in bed, worrying about all the money we’ve spent, but also whether we’ve spent enough. I go through each of the 187 dead babies in my head, running their fatal scenarios against the prophylactic measures we’ve taken. Did I remember to spin the combination on the toilet? I stare at the bedside monitor, waiting for the baby to flatline, which he does five or six times a night. So far it’s just been that he’s pulled off his wires again, but running in there five or six times a night and fumbling around for those shock paddles, it takes something out of you.
My wife and the babyproofer are driving up to Ojai, for a weekend seminar on antioxidant baby massage at some resort. I forget exactly why they can’t take the baby; the spa supplies its own practice infants for insurance reasons, maybe.
So here I am, left holding the baby.
He is so beautiful. I want to lift the polarized visor of his helmet to get a better look; I want to kiss his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, damn the salmonella. But I can’t. I know that. I rock the baby gently, in no more than a twenty-degree arc, no more than tw
enty oscillations per minute, whispering in the five-to-ten-decibel range, Please don’t die, baby. Please don’t die. Not on my shift.
Whacking the Baby
I want to kill the baby. These feelings are perfectly normal, I am told by Jimmy Ray DeHavre in A Regular Guy’s Guide to Rugrats.
He’s monopolizing your wife’s funbags, your funbags, sucking all the fun out of them (he’s already plowed her love canal into the Chunnel); he’s done something to your wife’s brain, making her a baby slave with no time or inclination to service your needs; he’s a crap factory, he’s crying every goddam second, and you haven’t slept in five days: of course you want to kill him. But don’t. It’s against the law. (p. 29)
My wife bought the book, though I doubt she has read it. There is much in it with which she would disagree.
I haven’t slept in 234 days. According to www.askdrsam.com, I should be experiencing auditory and tactile hallucinations, severe motor and mental impairment, irritability, and death.
But, more likely, you have slept. Perhaps you have fallen into micro-sleep for periods lasting up to several seconds without noticing. Or perhaps you have fallen asleep and dreamt that you were awake and unable to fall asleep. Nevertheless, sleep deprivation can be a dangerous medical condition. If over-the-counter sleep deprivation drugs prove ineffective (to buy, click here), you should visit a doctor (to make an appointment, enter zip code and click here). If your problem persists, you may need to see a psychiatrist (click here for a live streaming therapy session). She or he will help you identify the source of your sleep deprivation and eliminate it.