By Scott Buckner
As the late Bernie Mac might say: Go ahead, America. Spend a 10-day vacation with nowhere to go, nothing to do, no money to do it with, and nobody to spend it with except plain old local TV from stupid-ass rabbit ears antennae that only works when you hang it off a nail next to the window. Even then, you still never get Channel 2. Kids today don’t know TV hardship until they have to flip the channel with a pair of pliers because the selector dial disappeared.
But old-school’s luster only goes so far, so sooner or later, you start forming opinions about daytime TV that have nothing to do with Jerry Springer. This is especially true if you somehow manage to avoid a single encounter with Jerry Springer without having to rent anything from Blockbuster or bend over and grab your ankles for what Comcast charges these days for basic cable.
So wise up, America. The government is paying a boatload of money for digital TV converter boxes, so you owe it to yourself to jump on one of the few government gravy trains that any broke-ass white guy like myself wouldn’t feel that bad about. It’s even better if you’ve somehow managed to become a broke-ass Republican white guy.
I know it can be tough, America, but suffering through your days with plain old broadcast TV until your next marriage can indeed be done, because I did it pretty much 24/7 this past week without becoming more brain-dead than what is considered acceptable at the dive bar up the street. I’ve now seen enough episodes of Cops and TV judge shows to know that even syphilitic crack whores and chronic wife-beaters have gone further on far less.
No, the problem with daytime broadcast TV has nothing to do with trying to stay away from Jerry Springer. It’s trying to stay away from the bottomless well of TV judges and the constant variety of freak show disguised as real life that parades before them every broadcast day.
That said, I now know why TV judges become TV judges: You just don’t get this kind of lunatic fringe in your everyday life by working a federal district courtroom. Look, I’m all for carnival workers and the inbred getting their fair share of justice, but somehow I doubt any of our Supreme Court justices go home with anywhere near the number of stories to entertain the neighbors during Saturday night cocktails.
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Okay, I peeked more than once during my week-long layover. WCIU-TV (Channel 26)’s Judge Marilyn Milian of The People’s Court is indeed the hottest judge on television. She’ll be all over every single she-judge contender when the new TV-judge season begins within the next week or so.
I’m also pretty confident she’d be able to bitch-slap Judge Maria Lopez and the always-amusing Judge David Young into submission. She might have a problem taking Judge Mathis, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had some very pointy shoes beneath her bench to lay him out with. What she might have going on under that robe is another discussion, so for now I’m sticking to the really pointy shoes.
Quite frankly, I’m glad The People’s Court is done with old-folks favorite judges Wapner and Judy. If nothing else, Judge Marilyn has given the elderly of America a reason to get moving around at least once in their day. Or week. Still, I could live without Harvey Levin standing next door to that Times Square movie theater whose marquee seems to advertise nothing but Legally Blonde years after it was released.
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But really, the one show that stands head-and-shoulders above the crowd in daytime TV’s DNA bouillabaisse is WCIU’s Cheaters, which airs between noon and 1 p.m. It’s Cops without the cops, Jesus without the priest, and unfortunately, not as good as Jail. No matter though; every Cheaters episode has its moments.
Last week’s emcee roster was schizophrenic, wavering between sometimes-unshaven host Tommy Grand (a.k.a. co-producer Tommy Habeeb) and slimy, condescending hipster host Joey Greco. Greco got shanked in an infamous episode at some point during the show’s run, which I didn’t find all that surprising given that just about every returning cheater interviewed last week still wants to slap the smug out of him.
I’ve come to prefer Tommy Grand as our guide through the muck and mire of infidelity that makes Cheaters so fucking good even when it’s bad. I’m not sure whether it’s his whole Randy Quaid approach to his work or his ability to be content with watching shit unfold before his eyes like he just fired up a big fatty 20 minutes earlier.
Sure, Joey Greco thrives on the confrontation which is the high point of every show. But when you’re a different dude who’s able to calmly bullshit in the middle of a White Hen parking lot with every cheatin’-ass mook you’ve just busted on camera with some hoochie mama in the back seat of your car at 2 a.m., you the man.
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During my weeklong spiral of despair into the UHF pit, I’ve never felt so compelled to take more long, hot showers than after being immersed in the constant stream of commercials urging me to decide whether I want to cash in on my structured annuity settlement or just say fuck it all and file for bankruptcy.
Decisions, decisions – and I’m not even more than $10,000 in debt. I may be close, but frankly, a bankruptcy attorney who never blinks his eyes even creeps the bejeezus out of my kids. So in the end, I managed to repel his hypnotic stare and decided to sit tight on my mountain of debt for at least a few more months until I need to turn my auto wreck into a check, want the comfort of a payday loan, or just revel in my brokeness with a whole shitload of furniture from Rent-A-Center.
It’s not as depressing as it seems, though. Sometimes a guy likes going to bed knowing he still has a few options to burn through before he actually has to go live under a bridge.
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I think I have found the newest local TV commercial that not just transcends the vapidity of the infamous Eagle Insurance commercial, but also has the potential to outlast the Victory Auto Wreckers commercial which has been airing nonstop and virtually unchanged on Chicagoland’s lower-budget channels for roughly 30 years.
This tip of the hat goes to the Calumet Auto Parts commercial featuring Captain Calumet, the valiant caped crusader who I’m pretty sure even campy car dealer Bob Rohrman’s ad people were afraid to come up with. Heck, there’s even a midget and a befuddled woman in it. That’s exactly the legendary sort of weirdness that has made Eagle Man and the dude with the rusted-off car door hinges such enduring icons among every stoner and insomniac in Chicago still awake at five in the morning.
So don’t go changing a thing even 30 years from now, Captain Calumet. We like you just the way you are.
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See what else we’ve been watching! Submissions welcome.
Posted on September 3, 2008