Everyone loves Betty

My current guilty pleasure is vintage game shows.   Prior to this obsession, it was Johnny Carson reruns.  It's fairly typical of me to get fixated on one thing for a period of time and then move on to something else.

I suppose when we begin to feel a little less immortal, it's not obscenely abnormal to start looking in the rear view mirror.

One day, I am reminiscing with an old friend about high school graduation and this little irritating thing called math enters my mind.   When I graduated in 89, my mom was the same age I am now, I told her.  Makes sense.  My kids just graduated and I am your age, this friend replied.

Thanks to the internet, we are given the opportunity to read about ghosts.   It's just a collective word to describe all these "celebrities" I watch on these game shows.  One by one as they appear on these game shows, I google them.  

Charles Nelson Riley.  Dead.
Gene Rayburn.  Dead.
Richard Dawson.  Dead.
Brett Somers.  Dead.

And so on...

Morbid, I suppose but all these people seemed so likeable back then.  Filled with life.  Funny.  Creative.  Approachable.

Just when this little eye twitch sets in with this new knowledge that no one lives forever, Betty White appears on game show after game show.  Google says shes alive!   Of course, I knew that but I had to make sure.

Last night, my game show curiosity/obsession took a new turn.  I watched two long documentaries.  One was about Michael Larson, the man who outsmarted CBS and Press your Luck.  He figured out the patterns on the No Whammies board and walked away with $110,000.  Back in the early 80s, no one ever won more that $30,000 on a game show.  Larson was a con artist who spent months watching Press your Luck and figuring out where the Whammies would not hit the board and when.

The second documentary was about Charles Ingram.  He was an English army major who cheated on Who wants to be a Millionaire.  Ten years ago, his wife and a friend sat in the audience and would obnoxiously and loudly cough when the right answer was given out of the mulitple choices of each question.   Worst cheater in history.  He ended up winning $1 million and then getting 20 months in jail.  Of course, he never got paid.

Most of the game shows are cliche.  Everyone is super corny and jumps up and down incessantly.   For fear of being censored, sex is called making whoopie or the cringe inducing making love.  Sexual innuendo is avoided.   It's like watching the Brady Bunch on Prozac.

Really, the only unsavory part of these game shows is Richard Dawson's need to make out with women, girls, or anyone with a vagina.  Most over-rated "celebrity" in history.  Unfunny, pretentious and a little creepy.

So, I'm watching a celebrity episode of Family Feud and there's Betty White again.   She was on every game show possible back then.  Mr. Dawson leans in, makes out with her and she discusses some animal charity she will be donating any winnings to if her team wins.

God, she's the sweetest woman alive, I am thinking.  But what's with the hair?  She's had the same haircut since the 50s.  That's unheard of with women.  It's like imagining a woman owning only one pair of shoes her whole adult life.   I become fixated on this for a few minutes.

Maybe, that's why everyone loves Betty.  She's consistent. 

There's something to be said about consistency.  Being approachable, funny, friendly, kind; they're all noble traits.  And rare.  All of these ghosts seem to be genuinely drawn to her.  SHE'S GONNA OUTLIVE ALL OF YOU, I shout silently.

As I am about to become bored with my evening menu of game shows, Match Game comes on.  There's this little old lady contestant named Mildred who appears.  Mildred?  What's with all these terrible names women born prior to 1950 are given?  I become fixated on names and how they seem to always match the person with it.  I think of every crush I've ever had since I was 13 and there are no Mildreds or Barbaras or Loises or Helens.  

Match Game ends with Mildred winning $500.  The little old lady is beside herself.  I suppose that was a lot of money in 1978.  She's attempting to jump up and down while clapping like a seal.  Her joy is infectious.

And then...

Betty White, with the same haircut as Mildred but probably 30 years younger, rises from her celebrity seat, jogs over to Mildred and hugs her. 

It was genuine joy for another person.

Google says she's 94 years old.  Fifty years from now or 12 more presidential elections, I'll be the age she is now.

I'm getting a new haircut.

Stupid Kids and Magic

Nothing about this makes sense.   Of all the malls in the world, why would he choose this one?  How does he have time to do this all day with Christmas so close?  Where are his reindeer?  How did he get here? 

I had so many questions and as usual, adults always give a one word answer that is intended to wrap up all of life's mysteries with a neatly tied bow.

Magic, she said. 

Faith, he replied.

These answers were easier to digest, I suppose, than the storks response mom gave when I asked where babies came from years earlier.   Come to think of it, storks was the first time I was introduced to the oversimplification adults provide when kids present them with the natural curiosity within us.

I stood in line with all the other kids for two hours so I could tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas and more importantly, get my picture taken with him.   For an eight year old, having your picture taken with Santa is akin to adults on social media who take selfies with any given celebrity they happen to run into around town.   Celebrity worship begins at an early age.

The only thing I really remember about my two hours of standing in line for the one and only time I ever met Santa was the stupidity of most kids.   Want to know if your kid is smart?  If he questions everything.  Intelligence can be measured by the number of whys one asks.  

Critical thinking skills aren't as common as they should be.  Don't believe me?  We now have people begging the government to stop "fake news".   Just think about that for a minute.  Instead of just using your own critical thinking skills and your own ability to research things, people would rather have a corrupt and dishonest institution called government simply tell them what is real and what is not.

But I digress...

Okay, so maybe, I was a little snob as a kid.  As an only child of a single mother constantly showered with compliments from adults who were overcompensating because of the perceived "tragic" upbringing I was "enduring", I was led to believe I was smarter and better looking than all the other kids.

I stood in line that Saturday to meet Santa as mom roamed the mall.  Kids my age, screaming at the mere sight of Santa.  One might think Tiffany or some boy band was at the mall that day due to the noise these Santa fans were making.

"Hey, how did Santa get here from the North Pole?  How does he visit so many stores and malls in one day?", I asked this girl in front of me.

"Magic", she replied.

"But when does he sleep?  He's everywhere... Every mall, store, on TV and still has to go to every house in one week.  Don't old people have to be in bed by 6:00 (after wheel of fortune)?" 

"He's magical", she repeated.

I was getting nowhere.  I was surrounded by stupid kids who could only answer my well thought out questions with one word.

Eventually, it was my turn to sit on Santa's lap.

Santa asked me my name.  His nicotine stained teeth and Marlboro breath was more than I could handle. 

"Should you really be smoking when you have so much to do in the next week?   You're gonna get asthma like me." 

Santa pretty much ignored my line of questioning.  

What do you want for Christmas, young boy?

An Air Jammer Road Rammer, please.

He then promised to do his best.  My Santa selfie was taken by one of his helpers and I was sent on my way.

One week later, Christmas was here.  There were so many presents for me.  Single moms of an only child tend to spoil that kid.  Maybe, its out of guilt.  I don't know.

Underwear.  A clip on tie.  T-Shirts.  A new King James Bible with my name engraved inside.  Everything a boy doesn't want for Christmas was there for me.

Before I could throw my entitled tantrum, mom handed me one last present.

Santa wanted me to give this to you last.  Here you go, son.

And there it was... My Air Jammer Road Rammer.

Magic.

Indeed.

Talk to Myself

Talking to myself so I won't forget.  With a cup of coffee and a cigarette.  When midnight strikes, so does its regret.  And nothing good happens when the moon is set.

I am someone you used to know.  Maybe love.  Not too long ago.  Me, the self righteous Romeo.  Where art thou my Juliet?  

And the elevator only goes to the basement.  And everyone driving is drunk.  And the drugs don't work as well as they used to.  And all those familiar faces are no longer young.   And the phone never rings.  And standards and particulars become anyone.  And time can't finish running its course fast enough.  Talking to myself so I don't self-destruct.

And the mustard seed has been crushed.  And neurosis is the new normal.  And the drugs don't work as well as I had hoped.   And goodbye should never be this informal.   And all the familiar faces have become a blur.  And the invitations read, Come as you were.  Talking to myself becomes literature.

And I've become immune to the placebo effect.   And nurturing becomes neglect.  And a shower seems so pointless.  And the drugs only delay the trainwreck.  And my time machine seems outdated.  And the caffeine only makes me aggravated.  And history saves face by being manipulated.  Talking to myself so I don't become automated.

And the last day of summer breeds remorse.  And if I could sow the seeds of the hypothetical, you know I would, of course.  And all that's left is parity.  And all  the faces are cloaked in familarity.  And we scream in solidarity; only to realize talking to one's self is therapy. 

And heaven knows it's going to be a long cold winter. 

And all the marrow of life has been drained.

First, comes chaos.  Then, comes change.

Then hope replaces regret.

Conversations over a cup of coffee and a cigarette.