Food, Water, Oxygen, Television
I take television very seriously. And by seriously, I mean with the kind of dedication and loyalty you might find in a Scientologist or a golden retriever. I’m not just your average binger, using a show for my own amusement for one intense weekend and then tossing it aside like a pen without ink or a pro athlete’s first wife. I get invested, almost to my own detriment. I let shows emotionally affect me to the point where it almost breaks me. And even then I stick with it like a battered wife who foolishly believes it won’t hurt me again.
There has not been an episode of So You Think You Can Dance that I haven’t cried to. With a title like So You Think You Can Dance one might think there is nothing but joy and unadulterated jubilation associated with this program. After all, it’s fucking dancing. Oh but no, my dear friends. This is far from the reality that is SYTYCD. When’s the last time you saw someone on the dance floor at a party and it brought you to the kind of tears where you heave with grief-induced hyperventilation? Never? Well, this is my experience every time I watch this so-called dance show, whether it’s a piece choreographed to honor the life and death of the choreographer’s friend who died too soon from a swift and unforgiving cancer or a pop locker performing a lyrical number like a Nobel laureate reading his prize-winning poem. That is how a television dance competition does me.
Hi, my name is Retta and I’m a teleholic. It first started when I was a toddler. PBS was my pusher and Sesame Street was my gateway drug. I have been in love with/addicted to television ever since I can remember. Aside from the love of family, it has been the one constant in my life. Whether I’m happy or sad, feeling motivated or stagnant, I always turn to television for balance. For a sense of relief. For a sense of normalcy. It keeps me steady when I need it and brings me up when I’m low. It’s my own personal serotonin.
If I love something on TV, I will rewatch and revisit it in order to relive my initial viewing experience. I’ve seen Sex and the City, Will & Grace, Cougar Town, and, I’m not ashamed to admit it, Parks and Rec, I don’t know how many times. I watched the entire West Wing series twice in a row, back-to-back. That’s fourteen seasons, 310 episodes with nothing in between because apparently Aaron Sorkin does something for me.
Even genres I thought were not my cup of tea have gotten me on board, including sci-fi (Orphan Black, Battlestar Galactica, Fringe, The Expanse), zombies (The Walking Dead), and vampires (Angel, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, Kindred). I shouldn’t be too surprised by my vampy faves because I did love the Count on Sesame Street. The one genre I haven’t been able to get into is cartoons. I liked them as a kid but I just can’t vibe with them as an adult.
I’m also that person who recognizes someone from another show and feels the need to let everyone know, whether it be sending a tweet or telling someone actually in the room. “Oh shit! Mrs. Patmore! Who knew she could be a crime boss?!’” said I while watching an episode of The Catch.
You can call me IMDBeyotch.
I luh my programs. Highbrow (Downton Abbey) and lowbrow (Laguna Beach). Antiheroes (Tony Soprano) and unlikely heroes (Walter White). Comedies (Modern Family) and especially dramedies (Freaks and Geeks, Orange Is the New Black, Shameless, Gilmore Girls, Californication, Weeds, Veronica Mars, I could go fucking onnnnn). And, ooh yes, procedural doc shows, like Grey’s Anatomy. I get to live vicariously through these characters. It’s as though their experiences are mine, with all the breakthroughs and none of the lost patients! McDreamy was the ultimate because, you know, neurosurgeon and all, but then (spoiler alert) he gets into a car wreck? WTF??
Watching TV is my happy place (soul-crushing deaths of my favorite characters aside). As a latchkey kid, I watched television in the mornings before school as I ate my cereal and then when I got home from school I immediately did my homework and I watched back-to-back shows until bedtime. I ate dinner within earshot of the television because I just couldn’t miss anything.1 When Happy Days was over—when The Fonz said “Ayyyyyy”—I knew it was time to hit the hay. My parents didn’t need to read me Go the Fuck to Sleep. I knew I was going the fuck to sleep. At 9:00 p.m. sharp, my butt better be in that bed. But one night I actually looked at the clock when Happy Days was over and it read 8:30. Hol’ up. Do my eyes deceive me? I walked over to my parents’ bedroom, perplexed.
“Mom, it’s only 8:30,” I said incredulously.
“I know,” was my mother’s response.
“I always go to bed after Happy Days!”
“I know. I just thought you were tired,” my mom replied.
What the hell? I had been missing THIRTY MINUTES OF TELEVISION every Tuesday for years! When I realized I would finally get to watch Laverne & Shirley, a show whose ads I’d seen for years, it was like Christmas morning! I had an extra half hour to stay up and bask in the comedy of goofy besties Laverne and Shirley aaand Lenny and Squiggy.
I don’t know if my parents knew how many sexual innuendos I was being bombarded with on a nightly basis in the Swingin’ ’70s, between Len and Squig’s lascivious looks and all that braless jigglin’ going on at The Regal Beagle on Three’s Company. My mom and dad might have been strict about a lot of things, but they let me watch endless amounts of unsupervised television. Seems like everybody did back then. I watched from dawn ’til dusk. At breakfast, I got on board The Great Space Coaster while I ate my cereal-water concoction. After school, I watched General Hospital or The Munsters reruns. At night, I was ready for primetime, and that could be anything from All in the Family, which was way over my head, to Welcome Back, Kotter.
Our TVs were our babysitters back in my latchkey days, the equivalent of our smartphones today. And just like how now they say our phones are destroying our eyes and brains and social skills, turning us into zombies, the same thing was said about the boob tube. It was the “vast wasteland.”2 I respectfully disagree with that assessment. I got a lot of beneficial shit from my TV watching as an impressionable young lass. Looking back, I can see my future from what I was enjoying on TV. I see what I wanted for MY life based on what shows I was obsessed over. The shows weren’t rotting my brain; they were aspirational.
First, I discovered that I had a particular affinity for shows where people had nice homes. Sanford and Son stressed me out because of all the junk. I can’t take a cluttered home, and the fact that they literally lived in a house filled with junk made me want to burn it to the ground.3 Why would I want to watch Good Times, where they lived in a sparse, mostly beige, low-income project, when I could watch I Dream of Jeannie and fantasize about living in a bright glass bottle filled with comfy, cozy, colorful, oversized cushions?! I didn’t appreciate Sanford and Son or even M*A*S*H, the Emmy Award–winning comedy about the Korean War, because I didn’t like the color palette. So much dust, so little flora. M*A*S*H was all dirt or military green, and I didn’t like green. I liked red and purple and orange and gold, like Jeannie’s bottle. I also liked Jeannie’s ability to make thangs happen (and appear) with the blink of an eye and a nod of the head. It’s the same reason I liked Tabitha on Bewitched. I was all about twitching my nose—twinkle twinkle twinkle!—and breakfast was made or a new vacuum cleaner would appear. The closest I can get to that kind of magic is Postmates and Amazon Prime, and trust me, I use the shit out of those.
I longed to live in a sitcom, but not just any sitcom. I yearned for a pristine, pretty world (the infamous afghan on the raggedy Roseanne couch gave me the shivers). The place I wanted to live in most was The Brady Bunch house in California. I’d never seen a house like that in my life! So open and clean! The Brady Bunch also taught me how to deal with all the motherfucking people in my house. At our place, we were piled up in tiny rooms. The Brady kids had the three-and-three situation, but their rooms were HUGE compared to mine. I remember Greg being so pressed to move to the attic and I was like, “Dude, I’ll take your place in your room any day! I don’t know what the fuck y’all are complaining about.”
My home today is relatively spotless and mostly uncluttered4 at all times. Uncluttered includes it being free of people. It’s odd because I always want to be around people. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in a house filled with people. I always think I want to entertain guests. I go out of my way to make my place inviting. I provide my guests with a fluffy guest robe like nice hotels do. I even have a basket of white rolled hand towels like they have at fancy hotels. My guest bathroom is nicer than the one in my master bedroom. But when I do have guests, it only takes about two days for me to remember how nice it was NOT having guests. I never had that experience growing up. There was always another cousin moving in. It’s probably why I was so bent outta shape when cousin Oliver showed up at the Bradys’ split-level mid-century modern masterpiece because I knew from having random extended family move in for only God knows how long. The house was more crowded, the lines for the bathroom were longer, food ran out much quicker, and there were more fights over what to watch on the television and thus more reasons for my parents to be annoyed with the whole lot of us. Same thing when cousin Pam came to stay with the Huxtables on The Cosby Show. I mean, what the fuuuuuuck?5
Aside from the encroachment of cousin Pam, I loved everything about The Cosby Show (emphasis on the show—I’m not about to get into Bill Cosby the person here; I’ll need another book deal for that hot mess). Like so many kids, I wanted to be a Huxtable because:
1. How cool would it have been to have a hippy-dippy, funky sister like Denise, Lisa Bonet’s character? I’ve never had a sister. She could’ve saved me from so much boy-inflicted heartache.
2. The in-house entertainment!
3. And the parents?! The dad’s a doctor (which I knew for sure I was gonna be)? Mom’s a lawyer? I meeeeean BALLER, right? I just remember seeing a black family in a house6 and thinking, If that ain’t livin’!
Another favorite was The Jeffersons. I liked that they were affluent, yes. And they lived in a de-luxe apartment in the sky. But, more important, they had a yellow couch with orange accents. Finally, somebody with style! I thought it was hilarious that George couldn’t understand his neighbors. He just didn’t get how a fly girl like Helen Willis (played by Roxie Roker, the mother of one of the coolest rock stars there is, Lenny Kravitz) could be married to, nay, in love with, Tom, the epitome of the goofy white guy. I didn’t get it either! Not because Tom was a white guy. I loved white guys! In high school white boys were my jam! And, to clarify, I don’t exclusively covet white men. I have enjoyed the company of a rainbow assortment of gentlemen in my modest sexual history. But in high school that’s what was around me.
My mother, a proud African who only became a U.S. citizen when I graduated college because my father was fed up with the drama at customs when they traveled, used to shake her head and laugh. “Ay yah. I jus know you will marray a white man. At lease I kno I will half beautuhfaux granchiren.” (My mother’s accent is a point of pride. She has no interest in losing it.) The only thing she didn’t appreciate was the fact that I would not suffer the agony she had to endure when doing my hair. I know most kids can be difficult when getting their hair done, and I was particularly problematic. I had African hair that wanted nothing to do with American hairstyles and, as a result, I was a handful for Deb. Brushing it out was a nightmare, unless I got it processed. I remember my mother hot-combing my hair and using Vigorol. It smelled horrendous, and to this day I still don’t know its purpose. She resented that I would never know her struggle if I had mixed-race babies. My mother deserves a shout-out for managing to make me look cute in that classic ’70s hairstyle for girls—six little pigtails adorned with those Kabanger-looking hair ties and barrettes hanging on the ends of the twists.
Anyway, that was a bit of a sidetrack. My point is, I liked white boys so I wasn’t upset about Helen and Tom as a couple. What I didn’t understand, though: How was she attracted to Tom Willis? George Jefferson was so thrown by her liking a white man. I was just mad she liked that particular white man! I was more of a Jason Bateman in Silver Spoons kind of gal (I was twelve).7
TV was about escapism for me. I was living Good Times in real life, and let me tell you, it most definitely wasn’t as good of a time as The Love Boat. Everybody’s on vacation and there’s a pool on the friggin’ boat—how bad could it be? I used to daydream about what I would ask for if I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Roarke and Tattoo on Fantasy Island after disembarking de plane. What would I do? I’ll tell you what I’d do. Live in a big-ass freestanding house with no frickin’ cousins in it.
But there was no such thing as a free lunch on Fantasy Island. There was always a price to pay. Nobody on that show ever got exactly what they wanted and there was always some lesson learned. Like, they might gift me my sick house with an infinity pool and claw-foot bathtub, but it’d probably be haunted by the ghost of a bride-to-be who insisted I wear a strapless dress to teach me that being a selfish loner is NEVER the answer.
Hey, just because I crave peace and quiet doesn’t mean I’m a hermit. Quite the opposite—I’m a major girls’ girl, despite or maybe due to the fact that I grew up with two brothers. I love hanging with my girlfriends, my lifeblood. And if you look at the long list of shows I liked as a kid, starting with Laverne & Shirley, there was a running theme—sisters before misters. I was obsessed with The Facts of Life, about four teen gals—Blair, Jo, Tootie, and Natalie—from four completely different backgrounds living together in a dorm at an all-girls’ boarding school. I was like, how cool would it be to go to school and live with girls! ALL GIRLS! Then, when I realized I’d have to share a room with six girls, I wanted to shoot myself in the face.
But six girls sharing one mirror in a tiny bathroom. Imagine the hair clogs. Even so, it would still be way better than living with two guys, like on The Odd Couple. I hated that show because (1) Oscar was a disgusting pig, and (2) they weren’t really friends! They were always fussing at each other and definitely didn’t have each other’s backs.
I appreciate and hold sacred that quality in best friends. Hands down, number one on my long list of great TV shows is Sex and the City. I loved the friendship between Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha because it was so real. Some of my favorite episodes are when Carrie and Miranda got into fights. They are uncomfortable to watch because they remind you of what it’s like to argue with your bestie but they always end up making up. Doesn’t matter how mad they were or what they were fighting about, they always show up for their friend.8 Those real moments meant a lot to me. They always had each other’s back.
I lived vicariously through those four gals. I went through a really broke time, but it was okay because I felt like when they went out for fancy cosmos, I went out for fancy cosmos. When they went to fancy parties, I was right there with them. When they went shopping for Manolos, I got to virtually shop, too. When they had sex … well, let’s just say I learned a lot. Their openness and honesty about sex was refreshing. The series broadcast happened to coincide with a time in my life when I was becoming more sexually aware and figuring out who I was and being more open about sex. I so related to Miranda’s work ethic and dedication to excellence in her career, to Carrie’s commitment to succeeding on her own, and to Samantha’s unabashed sexual independence, and there was even a point when I had baby pangs when Charlotte longed to be a mother.
I didn’t even realize it until I sat down to write this chapter, but television has been a mirror into my life and what I hold important. I thought I’d just write something funny about all the shows I’m obsessed with. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was all interrelated. I bet if you thought about it, too, you’d see some connections between your own life and your TV life. Unless you’re one of those people who doesn’t own a TV and, if so, I don’t even want to know you.
I have an affinity toward shows about friends who had aesthetically pleasing lodgings and apparently enjoy observing the wealthy in their beautiful homes no matter the decade. In the ’70s it was Diff’rent Strokes, the ’80s Dynasty, the ’90s Beverly Hills, 90210, and the ’00s Dirty Sexy Money. I like shows where everybody gets along. That’s why I can’t really watch a lot of reality TV. All the in-fighting makes me uncomfortable and I find myself getting angry at people I don’t know. It brings out the Judgey McJudgerson in me. Yelling at TV personalities, telling them what they should and should not be doing. Too stressful. I’d rather work shit out! I’m not saying I don’t like the real dark stuff, like The Shield or The Wire, or stuff that makes you cry on purpose, like SYTYCD, cuz I do. But I tend to watch those kinds of shows when I’m not feeling quite like myself. The vibe I prefer in my life 24/7 is friendship and laughter. The misunderstandings and ridiculous assumptions on shows like Three’s Company, Laverne & Shirley, NewsRadio, Cougar Town, Will & Grace, Scrubs, and Cheers. You’d be hard-pressed to not enjoy the silliness of these iconic TV shows.
My mother says I get my silliness from her mother. Apparently it skipped a generation. She’ll enjoy a laugh but she can be stern. My brother and I used to perform for her when we were younger. We would just be as silly as we knew how, standing at the foot of her bed trying to make her laugh. She’d look at us over her glasses and say, “Who took mah chirren? You musta been sweetch at birth. Someone else is raising mah chirren!” She hated when we acted ignorant and didn’t speak proper English, so we would do it on purpose. We’d say things like, “Why he had did dat doe?” She’d cringe. We’d howl with laughter.
Surely, trying to pry laughs out of my mom helped in developing my comedy skills. That and my obsessive TV watching. I sat through a shit-ton of I Love Lucy reruns growing up, so thank you, Ms. Ball, for your wisdom and influence. I also took note of sitcoms that starred a stand-up comedian—Ellen, Roseanne, Bret Butler, Martin Lawrence, Tim Allen, Drew Carey.
When I was growing up, TV was a mythical thing in a magical land. As much as I felt I was a part of the Huxtable family or that George Jefferson was my uncle, I never thought there’d be a chance of me running into those people. But, as I got older, something shifted in my consciousness and my confidence. Or maybe it was seeing Jerry Seinfeld in my college cafeteria one minute and the next thing I knew that cranky guy talking about his socks was INSIDE my TV set. It may have struck me for the first time that real human beings were on my TV. Being on TV was actually an attainable goal. I could live in that magical land if I wanted to. Anyone could if they were funny enough. I thought I was funny enough. So I said, “Fuck it. Why not me?” And I moved to Hollywood and inside your television.