“Heaven holds a place for those who play, hey, hey, hey...” Knute Garfunkle
To save a few bucks on gas I now tailgate in hopes of getting in on that free drafting or drifting or whatever the hell that is. Hyper-planing. Yeah, thanks Mister Google. A few weeks ago while conserving some serious gas coin I was so close to the car in front of me I was able to actually watch television from the two small monitors installed into the back of each headrest. I’m not sure if it was the fact that I was watching their onboard television for free or whether it was that I was driving a mere inch or so from the sedan’s rear bumper, but the driver was obviously annoyed at my attempt to shrink my carbon footprint .The driver would jam on the breaks, I guess to send some type of message, although I don’t think that’s very safe, but hey, no problem since I have the reflexes of a cat. Some people are born with striking good looks and a natural sense of direction. No, not me. My innate talent is having reflexes like a cat - a slipstream driving feline of some exotic variety. Not like a Tiger though. Tigers have seemingly fallen out of fashion. So, for about twenty minutes I watched Big Money TV Bingo without using one litre of petrol. Now, I’m hooked on both hyper-planing and TV Bingo.
I have now taken to watching Big Money TV Bingo every Saturday night, and mass for shut-ins every Sunday morning. The TV Bingo is beamed live out of Sudbury. The mass for shut-ins comes from all over. I’m not fussy. There are some similarities between the two televised offerings which I find comforting in some indefinable way. Personally, I think that the two programs should be combined to kill two birds with one stone; the luring promise of personal salvation and up to $5000 for a full square. Might be a difficult pitch, mind you. Throw in some reality angle; some type of pay-per-view extravaganza. Maybe each week a contestant who calls in a full card and accurately quotes from the Book of Leviticus is picked up in a white van then dispatched by the show’s producer where the lucky winner is forced, possibly by gunpoint, to pole vault over a tank of hammerhead sharks, or jump a lagoon with a scooter or punch out a polar bear, or at the very least, shove it around a little and see what happens. Big Money Bingo Bloodshed with funds to be raised for the North Bay Blood Bank. But I digress.
On MCTV Big Money Bingo, the host, (I don’t know his name but it must be a numbing gig), presides over an electronic altar behind what appears to be a cardboard backdrop painted blue speckle. Maybe he is the God of Bingo - GINGO. For the last few weeks I’ve been tuning in without actually playing. Hell, if I bought cards I would be committed to watching it from start to finish while interacting. Then it would be a drag. I don’t roll that way. I don’t roll any way, come to think of it. I just move from one foot to the other waiting to run. I like having the option of bailing on something right at the last minute. Like weddings or jury duty. Plus, all the money I’m currently pocketing from hyper-planing would be lost to this televised game of chance. No, as it stands, I just kind of enjoy scoping it out. I like the reassuring sound of the tumbling balls. I find it relaxing. There are no quick cutaways or strange tight shots, or artsy Herzog Euro-angles; just the rumbling and tumbling of balls all colours of the rainbow.
Hey dad, whatcha watchin?
TV Bingo.
Why?
I have no idea.
It looks pretty boring.
Yeah, it’s no thrill-a-minute thing.
Where are your Bingo cards?
I’m not actually playing.
You don’t even have the dabbers do you?
No. Ssshhh.
Then why are you watching it?
I don’t know. It’s a little difficult to explain. It’s hard to nail down in precise terms. Sit down and watch it with me. We can bond. You can have some of my jerky if you want.
I dunno. Jeeze, it’s like that guy’s standing in front of blue cardboard. Who is he?
Lord Gingo - the God of Bingo.
Did you just make that up?
Yes.
Oh man, there’s gotta be something better than this. Click around.
I can’t seem to take my eyes off Lord Gingo. I’ve noticed that there’s not many G numbers called.
Dad, c’mon. Change the channel. Pass me the clicker.
No, not yet. Hey, I wonder what they have against the letter G? I think Lord Gingo is merely a puppet master, serving as a link between the players and some nefarious media cabal comprised of Masons, Scientologists and maybe Bill Gates.
Relax dad. You’re getting all conspiracy-minded again. Maybe we should watch Kenny vs Spenny to calm you down.
Not until a G’s called. Then we can change. Hey, Gates is spelled with a G. Coincidence?
So is Goofy.
Goofy? You think the frozen ghost of Walt Disney has something to do with this? Hey, where are you going?
I’ll be reading in my room.
Sure, fine, whatever. But when this guy calls a G, it’s going to be a real party. Chaos and mayhem, and you’re going to miss it.
That’s fine.
Don’t think that I’ll call you out either. You’re on your own buddy boy.
Yes, and the letter G is eventually called, and I gotta tell you it’s a bit of a letdown. Maybe I hyped it a little too much. Then it’s over. All the numbers are called, and this game is officially part of television history. I smell a scheme - a TV Bingo Scandal Scam. MCTV could air reruns of their Bingo program but not say anything. Same numbers. Week in and week out. It worked for Cheers and Seinfeld so why not TV Bingo?
But I digress. On another totally unrelated note, I’ve been re-reading Rock Bottom, penned by über-groupie, Pamela Des Barres. Dead rock stars and such. All alphabetized for easy perusing. Wasted lives compartmentalized around an average word count of ten thousand words, give or take. Des Barres, Frank Zappa’s former nanny, and staple of the Sunset Strip knows how to tell a great rock and roll anecdote. This is no rush-to-press Official Disney Bio treatment of industry-manufactured robo-stars. All parties included in Des Barres’ book have earned their way into the pages through blood, guts, pain and respective trails of human carnage.
Rock Bottom is an encyclopaedia of de-tuned debauchery, doomed decadence, drama and ultimately, death. Lessons can be learned from the mistakes of others. Stevie Ray Vaughan should have bummed a ride home from Alpine Valley. Sid Vicious? Johnny Thunders? John Bonham should have stopped boozing after that half imperial quart of vodka. GG Allin? Maybe we shouldn’t talk about him. He’s been dead since 1993 and he’s still getting arrested for gross indecency and terrible pitch. For each alphabetized musical icon, there’s the typical arch in all the lives of the victims of excess - sudden fame, money, youth, misery, egos, and the untimely deaths. It all makes for light hearted reading although none of the segments have happy endings. Kurt Cobain burnt out before he had the chance to fade away. Damn. Gram Parsons overdosed in New Orleans. He was a cosmic cowboy junkie; had his suits tailor-made from butterflies or something outrageous like that. The stuff myths are made of. After his death his body was to be flown back to Florida where his stepfather had some serious financial interest in having Gram’s death certificate signed in the Orange state. Instead, his roadie buddy intercepted the body en route to the airport, brought it out to the Joshua Tree and set it on fire as was Gram’s smacked-out final wishes. Now, that’s a great rock’n’roll bedtime story. Body snatching and fire in the desert. If we could somehow marry rock star excess with TV Bingo and Televised Sermons, we would have a killer television series. That would beat the hell out of Cake Boss.
Posts
