We are still in the middle of getting moved in to our new house, and getting organized, set up, settled in, and whatnot.
I spent much of last night putting together a “home entertainment center,” which means slapping together a bunch of fake wood and hoping it doesn’t collapse under the weight of the the TV, the VCR, DVD, and receiver.
We watched another high-tension episode of 24 where undercover Jack helps blow up his own place of employment in an effort to stay down with the “patriot” terrorists as a conduit to the Middle Eastern nuclear terrorists.
A side thought: has any teenage girl been subjected to such a concentration of peril as Jack’s daughter Kim in a time frame spanning a mere 27 hours? I think not.
So anyway, I’m madly assembling and following the 24 action – poor George Mason, exposed to a lethal dose of radiation!! – when, as TV does, 24 ends and the local Fox news comes on.
I used to work at the station and like most of the people there (other than the fat, lying, smarmy, dumbass news director), and though the ancient, ossified, decrepit 10pm news team of Wilma Smith, Tim Taylor, and mummified weather man Dick Goddard are a little long in the tooth, they still do a pretty good job. There was even a legitimate investigative report on sexual predators that swept away any lingering civil rights concerns I have for baby rapers, child murderers, and incestuous parents: expose them, keep a keen eye on them, and kick them in the balls if they get near the kids.
But then the “Cleveland Idol” finals segment comes on: remarkably similar to the American Idol final, the contestants are a young white male with spiky, poofy hair, and a spunky young white woman. Backed only by piano, the young man sings “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” with great verve and misses half the notes. It is embarrassing. Then the young woman – who is packed into a dress she bought before the cookies and chips binge – sings Celine Dion’s “Power of Love.”
Mother of God – she could not have picked a worse song, and although she doesn’t miss the half the notes, she misses a third of them. In some ways her performance is even more embarrassing because she seems less oblivious to her surroundings than the pleasant bopping idiot who has sung before her.
The wretchedness of this spectacle is then nearly matched by the toupe of the the sports anchor, which makes Jim Traficant’s look almost natural.
Shudder – thank goodness we get the cable hooked up tomorrow.