A recent, but thankfully minor health scare got me reminiscing about a not so minor one I experienced some years back when I was laid low for more than a month with a typically tropical hideous disease. My only salvation – trash telly.
1. Dengue Daze
Erin Murphy was a child star on Bewitched, but that “doesn't define who she is as a person.” One would hope not, given that her last appearance on the show was in 1972. I have learned a lot about Erin Murphy in the past few weeks from high-rotation re-runs of Oprah. I have heard about her struggle with bulimia, her stalled career on the motivational speaking circuit and her preferred colonic cleansing retreats. In fact, I have learned many things slumped on my couch, remote control in hand, recovering from Dengue Fever through most of October.
Now, as I emerge from the delirium and take my first tentative steps back into the real world -- or the twisted Bangkok version of it -- I find myself faced with a much bigger hurdle; breaking my recent, but full-blown cable TV addiction.
Dengue is a peculiar beast. It is enervating, debilitating but characterized by periods of deceptive lucidity, followed by times of incoherence, inertia, depression, aches, pains, sweats, shivers and shakes. And wild mood swings, that mark an emotional roller-coaster ride, much like that endured daily by many of the characters on the 85 TV shows that have insidiously hooked me during my convalescence.
But I should count my blessings -- and not just because I shed 7 kilos in 3 weeks, eclipsed only by my fabulously self-destructive cocaine issue a year or so before.
My problems are nothing compared to the misfortunes the vets in a small Yorkshire community on The Chase have had to face. In the BBC serial, which I haven't missed in 17 days, handsome Tom is married to cheerful but irritating Anna and they have four rosy-cheeked offspring. Their veterinary practice may be struggling, but at least they are happy. They have their family, their health and the occasional night out at The Rat and Parrot. Or they would have, had Tom not bonked conniving receptionist Fiona in a moment of drunken, dick-driven lunacy -- and gotten her pregnant -- while Anna was in hospital popping poppet number four. Anna doesn't know about Tom and Fiona, but her sister Sarah does. And she's threatening to blow the whistle, even though she knows the shocking revelation could destroy poor Anna, who is only just beginning to heal from the heartbreaking setback of discovering she was adopted. Their widowed father Roy, meanwhile, has recently re-married, to a gold digging slapper called Maxine who is taking him for a ride, "in more ways that one." (Boom Boom!). It's gripping melodrama, and, being a BBC show, slickly produced and well acted.
Not so The Bold and the Beautiful, the long-running American show. But the daytime soap’s mind-bogglingly plodding pace matched my own during my early disease-stricken days. I swear I nodded off at times only to awake 10 minutes later to find Blake still staring ponderously out of the window of the Santa Barbara hospital room where Autumn (where do they get these names?), immaculate in full face make-up, still showed no signs of emerging from her coma.
Glacial narrative arc aside, I am more than a little curious to find out if Stone will divorce Paige, whether Thorne will discover Starr's awful secret and the true identity of mysterious windsock tycoon Flapper. What's happening to me? In an attempt to stop my brain from turning to mush, I tune in to quiz shows.
"Meet the most feared woman on television," the Beeb voiceover announcer booms as black-clad dominatrix Anne Robinson, host of "The Weakest Link UK," flashes up on screen. Anne, apparently, is a legend. She asks questions and hurls abuse at the contestants on the show who vote each other off round by round. "Which village is missing its idiot? Which imbecile thinks that Thailand is next to Sock World at the local mall? It's time to vote off the Weakest Link," bellows Anne. She is rudeness on legs and I instantly warm to her. It's the contestants that I find terrifying. "I'm Moira, I'm 53 years old, single, and I work as an assistant product packing supervisor at a hubcap manufacturing plant in Swindon, Wiltshire," announces a horsy woman with peroxide hair, lemon slacks and an alarming nose. "I'm Ray, I'm 49, from Clacton-on-Sea, and I work in the entertainment industry," says toupeed-Ray, who turns out to be an amateur ventriloquist. "My name's Bill and I'm a bingo caller from Margate," mumbles Bill, who should seriously consider ditching the bingo halls to pursue a career as a Benny Hill impersonator. Surely these people are not representative of mainstream Britain. The Brits I know are not as bizarre looking or as clueless as this ludicrous bunch. Well, not all of them. Beset with nerves, Moira is off to a rocky start on the day I tune in, incorrectly guessing that the capital of Portugal is Barcelona. Wrong country darls, I sigh. Things deteriorate in round two, the multiple choice bit, where she embarrassingly answers that a balaclava is a wind instrument. "Oh for god sake," I shout at her from my couch, trying to suppress the alarming realization that I've started talking to my television. Her confidence in tatters, Moira is booted straight back to the hubcap factory after round three, sparking guffaws from the other contestants in the process by answering that the 37th president of the United States, who was forced to resign over the Watergate scandal in 1974 was George Washington! What the hell, she was only 180 years out. "Fool," I yell at my flat-screen as she departs, her outfit clashing with the blue studio set and the strobe-lighting lending a garish hue to her unfortunate perm. But before you can say 'Bling, mood swing" my disdain turns into deep, heartfelt sympathy for Moira during her "Walk of Shame" interview. "I thought by coming onto the show, I'd gain some self-confidence, as I've always been socially awkward and had trouble making friends," she says as we both fight back tears. "Instead, I'm going to be a laughing stock for being the first one voted off." Oh no, the poor thing, I wail, making a mental note to write to her, before breaking down in sobs.
Predictably, my sympathy for Moira soon segues into self-pity. Afterall, who am I to scoff at her taste in slacks? I’m no fashion plate, nor is my life one fabulous big success, I bawl, realizing it might be time for a lay down.
Mood swings, sulks and sobs aside, my TV odyssey has left me more informed on a wide range of subjects. I know from CSI and Numbers, for example, that the trick in tracking down serial killers is to dress well, exude sex appeal, utter witty asides -- despite the serious nature of your job -- and keep an open mind. Oh, and it helps to have a geeky but 'appealing in a disheveled sort of way,' mathematical genius on staff. Someone to point out to the other smoldering crime solvers and us lay-people at home, what should have been obvious: That mass murderers, although seemingly random in perpetrating their odious acts, may have, in fact, been basing their slaying pattern on an ancient Pythagorean equation which, when deciphered and translated from Latin, divided by the square root of 645,912 and written backwards over a stencil of Nostradamus' prophecies, could point to the killer's MO and help nab the sonofabitch. Or at least explain why blonde sorority sister Laney Henderson's executioner gouged her eyes out with a spatula and removed her head with an oxyacetylene torch before downloading a photograph of half of her torso onto his blog. How could we have missed that? The clues were all there. Man, these guys are good. And they get so much done.
Even when I'm not on death's door, it takes me the better part of an hour to haul myself out of bed, shower, dress and jump on a motorcycle to work. In the same time period, Kiefer Sutherland on 24 is able to comfort survivors of a nuclear attack in Valencia, California, alert the Pentagon, track down the leader of the terrorist group suspected of carrying out the atrocity, take a call from the President, reconcile with his estranged father, argue with his girlfriend, make up with her, have mind-blowing sex, shower and decide whether to have tacos or tapas for supper.
I really need to be more organized.
Overwhelmed, I switch over to E! Channel, where the programs aren't quite as intellectually challenging. E! has imbued in me, among other things, the knowledge that school dances in America are dangerous events to be avoided at all costs; Prom NightMares -- Those Who Never Came Home; that Lindsay Lohan's mother Deana is a gravity challenged vexatious litigant -- Living Lohan; that former supermodel Denise Richards' life is complicated -- Denise Richards, It's Complicated; and that Meg Ryan has not spoken to her surgically reconstructed mother in 19 years -- Meg Ryan, True Hollywood Story. Above all, I've learned that celebrities are human, and that E! Channel is nothing, if not repetitive. Madonna, I learn, “is not just a star, she's a businesswoman, a wife and a mother;" Sarah Jessica Parker "is not just a star, she's a businesswoman, a wife and a mother," and JLo “is not just a star, she's a businesswoman, a wife and a mother." Yeah, Okay, I get it -- hire some new writers for chrissake!
It’s not that I’ve ever eschewed television. In fact my old favourites have helped me recover from Dengue and deal with Deana Lohan's breathtakingly vile behaviour. I've never been able to resist the fabulously camp Desperate Housewives, the gorgeous Ugly Betty or the frocks on Sex in the City. Not to mention Amazing Race, Project Runway, Mad Men, Maeve O’Meara’s Food Safari and everything on the Turner Classic Movie channel.
But I need to face facts.
My problem has spiraled out of control. Like all junkies, I've already begun trying to hide my addiction. And, oh, the lies. "Ahem, no I'm not really well enough to meet for dinner just yet," I tell a friend, particularly not on Wednesday, I think to myself, desperate to see whether time traveler Doctor Who and his assistant Martha can rescue William Shakespeare from flesh-eating Dejunes in 16th Century London. "No, I'm still not up to tennis," I fib, especially not on Thursday when I'm busting to find out if Tom will finally make a move on his sexy fellow forensic pathologist Nikki on Silent Witness. "Sorry, but Sunday is not good," I apologize, guiltily relishing "Prom NightMares 2" on E! Channel.
So, how to deal with this?
It’s not that I’ve ever eschewed television. In fact my old favourites have helped me recover from Dengue and deal with Deana Lohan's breathtakingly vile behaviour. I've never been able to resist the fabulously camp Desperate Housewives, the gorgeous Ugly Betty or the frocks on Sex in the City. Not to mention Amazing Race, Project Runway, Mad Men, Maeve O’Meara’s Food Safari and everything on the Turner Classic Movie channel.
But I need to face facts.
My problem has spiraled out of control. Like all junkies, I've already begun trying to hide my addiction. And, oh, the lies. "Ahem, no I'm not really well enough to meet for dinner just yet," I tell a friend, particularly not on Wednesday, I think to myself, desperate to see whether time traveler Doctor Who and his assistant Martha can rescue William Shakespeare from flesh-eating Dejunes in 16th Century London. "No, I'm still not up to tennis," I fib, especially not on Thursday when I'm busting to find out if Tom will finally make a move on his sexy fellow forensic pathologist Nikki on Silent Witness. "Sorry, but Sunday is not good," I apologize, guiltily relishing "Prom NightMares 2" on E! Channel.
So, how to deal with this?
What would Anne Robinson do in my situation, I wonder? How would Ugly Betty cope? Should I seek advice from Oprah? Or am I beyond help? Have I already become the weakest link? The dunce among the deadwood? The village idiot? The loose spoke in the bicycle wheel? Maybe I should just come clean. "Hello, my name's Craig and I'm a cable TV addict. Hello Craig." It's too tragic for words. Should I check into a rehab facility in Malibu? Or just learn to live with my addiction? Others have coped with worse. So what if I watch 87 hours of television a week. It's just one of my many idiosyncrasies and, like Erin Murphy, it doesn't define me as a person. Does it? I can only pray that, like the 300 celebrities I now worship, I will be “blessed” with finding a solution to my remote-control abuse issues in the weeks ahead. Or maybe I'll luck out and clarity will come sooner.
Even, dare I hope, after the next commercial break.
2. Electric Who?
When my much-adored friend Ruth Pollard – who is Middle East correspondent for Australia’s Sydney Morning Herald and Melbourne Age newspaper posted on Facebook that “Electric Blue will be huge this summer, believe me” I was overcome with excitement.
I immediately logged into YouTube and keyed them in. Nothing. I googled them. Nothing. I logged onto ITunes, still nothing. I even called up the Billboard Dance Chart webpage. Not even a mention. I emailed friends. “Never heard of them,” came back the responses.\
She’s obviously got the name wrong, I mumbled to myself, before keying in variations by merging words, changing cases and trying hyphens.
Emma and Stu had recently turned me onto Lana del Rey, Marg in Sydney introduced Anna Calvi into my life, it was Ruth’s turn. This week’s new discovery would be Electric Blue,
who I would absolutely rave about for two weeks before completely forgetting them.
I finally gave up in a mild state of irritation and went to bed, messaging her the next day for clarification. In hindsight Ruth, who has covered the Arab Spring, various uprisings, the ongoing Gaza clash among other things, must have thought I had either been on a binge or had lost all perspective of things, but she did, graciously, reply.
Just before her note landed, the penny dropped and I had that awful but much experienced “I’ve made a complete fool of myself’ feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Ruth was talking about the color, electric blue. It was as simple as that. Shouldn’t that have been obvious? Why did it not even occur to me? Am I losing my mind?
So many questions, but wait there’s more.
Is there a name for what must surely be a psychological condition in which one automatically assumes that everything – be it a color, car, clothing, animal, vegetable or mineral mentioned on a friend’s Facebook page is a new electro-pop gay dance act? More importantly is there a support group? A cure? Or will it just get worse? What next? Stay un-Tuned.
3. My Mate Greg
2. Electric Who?
When my much-adored friend Ruth Pollard – who is Middle East correspondent for Australia’s Sydney Morning Herald and Melbourne Age newspaper posted on Facebook that “Electric Blue will be huge this summer, believe me” I was overcome with excitement.
I immediately logged into YouTube and keyed them in. Nothing. I googled them. Nothing. I logged onto ITunes, still nothing. I even called up the Billboard Dance Chart webpage. Not even a mention. I emailed friends. “Never heard of them,” came back the responses.\
She’s obviously got the name wrong, I mumbled to myself, before keying in variations by merging words, changing cases and trying hyphens.
Emma and Stu had recently turned me onto Lana del Rey, Marg in Sydney introduced Anna Calvi into my life, it was Ruth’s turn. This week’s new discovery would be Electric Blue,
who I would absolutely rave about for two weeks before completely forgetting them.
I finally gave up in a mild state of irritation and went to bed, messaging her the next day for clarification. In hindsight Ruth, who has covered the Arab Spring, various uprisings, the ongoing Gaza clash among other things, must have thought I had either been on a binge or had lost all perspective of things, but she did, graciously, reply.
Just before her note landed, the penny dropped and I had that awful but much experienced “I’ve made a complete fool of myself’ feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Ruth was talking about the color, electric blue. It was as simple as that. Shouldn’t that have been obvious? Why did it not even occur to me? Am I losing my mind?
So many questions, but wait there’s more.
Is there a name for what must surely be a psychological condition in which one automatically assumes that everything – be it a color, car, clothing, animal, vegetable or mineral mentioned on a friend’s Facebook page is a new electro-pop gay dance act? More importantly is there a support group? A cure? Or will it just get worse? What next? Stay un-Tuned.
3. My Mate Greg
Greg Truman, who I have known since he was the smoldering sexpot of a lead singer in a critically acclaimed but commercially underrated late 80s band is doing what I’m doing: Putting out a blog. He’s very good. In fact, I think he’s better than me, and I rarely say things like that. Anyway, we’ve decided to be blog buddies, and unashamedly send out each other’s semi-regular diatribes on each other’s lists. You will enjoy Greggy. I certainly do. Watch out for him oh my scores of followers. He is officially now on my blog email list which includes Kim Kardashian, Robert McGabe, Sporty Spice, the bald man from Aqua and the entire cast of Downton Abbey.
Over and out, my many loyal fans!
Craigy
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