A Cure for the Summertime Blues


Now that summer is here, and television re-runs are being foisted upon us, I am faced with the daunting task of finding alternative forms of entertainment and/or activity every night of the week. For the next three months, I'll be up the creek without Dawson. I'll be a Party of One. No Profiling, no Pretending, no Practicing for me, no siree. I'll have to make my own Friends. And the only trip I'd be making to the ER is if someone Just Shot Me.

Sorry. Couldn't resist. But back to the question of what I'm going to do this summer.

I suppose I could shell out the extra dough for one of them fandangled premium-cable channels like HBO or Showtime, but I'm not a big fan of watching the same movie twelve times a week, unless it's a porno. The smut on those channels, however, is soft and doesn't show the real dirty stuff, so what's the point, right? Starz is pretty good, I think, but their commercials--with the choir singing "movies, movies, movies, movies, movies, movies, mooovies" to the tune of that song from Die Hard that was composed by that deaf Immortal Beloved guy, Gary Oldman--really annoy the hell out of me, and I'm not going to give them my money so they can use it for ads like that. So cable is out.

Perhaps I could utilize my newly-found free time to enhance my social life. I've been meaning to make some friends since moving to New York City in October (coincidentally the start of the TV season) and now is a good a time as any to make good on my empty pipe dreams. I could go to bars. Or clubs. Or I could insinuate myself into high society with my humorous satirical antics, a la Groucho Marx. On second thought, no; I don't much like those who have more money than I do, I prefer to drink alone, and as far as dancing goes, guilty feet have got no rhythm.

Crime fighting is another option. I have a great idea for a super hero, and let me know what you think. Ready? Here it is: Spatula Man. I can wield a magical spatula and fend off evil-doers, miscreants, and renegade flapjacks. My costume would be a skin tight yellow get-up with an emblem of a spatula emblazoned in the left breast pocket area, with purple boots, a purple cape (there would have to be a cape), and purple external underwear. I've always wondered about that, actually. Why do super heroes wear their underwear outside their tights? I mean, if I were a criminal and some guy showed up wearing a cape and underwear on top of tights (tights!), I would have no choice but to surrender, due to the fact that I would be convulsing helplessly on the ground, my body wracked with laughter.

I just don't know. The lack of first-run television has left such a void in my pathetic life. If only they could have new shows all summer. Wait a minute. That's it! I will replace television with activities based on my favorite shows. First, I will grab my handy thesaurus and speak to everyone Dawson-style. At work: "Where are those contracts I asked for?" "Sir, that you have the audacity to query me for such a trivial piece of minutiae is wholly inexplicable, as my status accorded to me at this establishment is on an infinitely more elevated plane than your request would indicate." At home: "What are you making for dinner?" "This evening I will be toiling over a hot culinary device preparing for my own personal edification a succulent, delectable feast consisting of Top Ramen and a beverage composed of one part H2O and one part frozen H2O."

Next, I will somehow simultaneously contract cancer, take up alcoholism, and start beating my girlfriend, all while lit by chiaroscuro lighting, thus easily supplementing Party of Five until it resumes in the fall. I will also move into an inexplicably huge Manhattan apartment and exchange witty banter with five of my young white co-ed pals, two of whom, Ben and Noel, will become involved with me in an aggravating love triangle, causing me to completely disregard the fact that I am in college and have more important things to worry about than these two dopes. As a result, I will flunk out and be forced to take a job at the nuclear power plant where I will sleep and eat donuts. The excessive intake of said donuts will cause a heart attack and, consequently, a visit to the emergency room, where my charming eccentricities will teach one of the young residents more about human nature and will help them complete whatever individual character arc they are experiencing at that time. Then, I will don a stethoscope and white coat and, when someone asks me if I'm a doctor, I will reply enigmatically, "I am today," because, you see, I'd only be pretending to be a doctor, in order to right some terrible injustice or another.

The notion that this season of warmth and sun will not abound with a great deal of ado is commencing to appear rather erroneous. That is, summer is going to be fun after all.


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