Thursday, February 8, 2001

 

1:04 a.m. I'm still mad that they've decided to put Survivor II on the TV schedule opposite the old sitcom Friends. I watch maybe three or four shows a week these days, and it is ludicrous that two of them are going to be colliding for the next few weeks.

Our VCR is broken, as far as we can tell. It's never been a fun, cooperative appliance, but now it seems to start playing and then it just -- stops. So -- I flip between the two competing shows during the commercials, as best I can.

I used to be able to flip through at the speed of light, analog light. Now, with the quote unquote improved digital signal that we now endure, my flipping is sludgy and hesitant. The picture has to resolve, square by square by square ... but I basically saw both shows, sort of.

Here's the odd thing, however. There are similarities, of course: the girls are tiny and pretty and the boys are bigger and ... pretty. Big white crocodile smiles all around. Lots of hugs and high-fives and French braids and halters.

But the people on Friends are nice and the people on Survivor are not nice. There's a mean streak slithering through the Survivor show this time, and I'm having a much harder time caring which person is going to go home and feel ultimately victorious.

Our pal Richard Hatch tried to be very charming, if you remember. He was fat and twinkly and flawed. The gay guy this time around seems dog-bone mean and small and pinched. And then there is the actress whose name I keep forgetting -- stay out of her way, I tell you. She looks like she'd chew your jugular right out of your neck.

Speaking of which -- they're awfully hungry for just a mere seven days, you know? I know they've had some rice and some buggy figs, but haven't they ever been on diets before? Maybe it's all that activity? The alliance-building and the back-stabbing?

Whatever. I'd rather watch Friends pretend that they are all just turning 30 and that the world's a civil place. Really, I would. Real life needs all the help it can get. Trust me on this.

You've got to self-hypnotize that fierce animal creature who wakes up hungry and scared each morning into believing that there's marmalade and toast in a clean sunny kitchen and that everything's going to be all right.

Art! We've gotta have art! And some nights we've got to soothe our brains with ibuprofen and our minds with melody and mythology so our dreams don't die in their sleep.

Reality? It's just not good enough.