Rosebud #57
It Isn't Over If the Fat Man Sings
How come every time I get on an airplane there’s a show on those little tvs with a really hot chick and a big boring fat guy? They typically live in a non-descript home with a boxy beige couch—meaning he ain’t bringing home too much bacon, except the stuff she cooks up for him in a pan. So what is she doing with this guy? I’ve put on my earphones to listen. He’s not really all that smart either—on the contrary, he’s a Blob, which is played for laughs. I’m not really sure where the humor’s supposed to come in, or why this is entertainment—it’s like staring at an electric fireplace log. Fake warmth.
Of course, they’re trying to do Roseanne all over again, but without the edginess. Shows like this eschew edgy. Edgy bad. Too dangerous. The really hot chick never comes close to Roseanne’s domestic goddess on a rampage repartee; and the big boring fat guy never goes near anything like John Goodman’s angry ripostes. That was a battle of the sexes worth watching, at times, although the more plastic surgery Roseanne underwent the less believable the whole thing became. Her net worth started showing.
Roseanne was The Honeymooners after Alice gained a salty vocabulary (and about 300 pounds); but not really. Although all these shows trace their genes to The Honeymooners, none of them replicates what was great and enduring there. And the difference isn’t Alice—who was a feminist with just a look—but Ralph. The moment we always waited for at the end of The Honeymooners was that moment that saved the world—when Ralph flung Alice into a passionate tango of an embrace and told her, Baby, you’re the greatest. In his own, big, ugly fat guy way, Jackie Gleason was sexy; and you could imagine why Alice was sticking around for more.
Because he loved her. Knew he didn’t deserve her. Knew it was a miracle of Biblical proportions that she was putting up with a big stupid ugly fat guy like him. Knew he was a trickster, a liar, a selfish jerk. But he was sorry. Really sorry. And when he apologized, she knew he meant it. It was Jackie Gleason who perfected the comic’s “I don’t want to say I’m sorry but I have to say I’m sorry” mug moment; and then when he finally got there, his wife couldn’t do anything but melt. He had humility.
The Honeymooners was about salvation, I’m tellin’ ya, about how loves saves. That’s a real fire. Throw another log on. Forget the damn TV.
How come every time I get on an airplane there’s a show on those little tvs with a really hot chick and a big boring fat guy? They typically live in a non-descript home with a boxy beige couch—meaning he ain’t bringing home too much bacon, except the stuff she cooks up for him in a pan. So what is she doing with this guy? I’ve put on my earphones to listen. He’s not really all that smart either—on the contrary, he’s a Blob, which is played for laughs. I’m not really sure where the humor’s supposed to come in, or why this is entertainment—it’s like staring at an electric fireplace log. Fake warmth.
Of course, they’re trying to do Roseanne all over again, but without the edginess. Shows like this eschew edgy. Edgy bad. Too dangerous. The really hot chick never comes close to Roseanne’s domestic goddess on a rampage repartee; and the big boring fat guy never goes near anything like John Goodman’s angry ripostes. That was a battle of the sexes worth watching, at times, although the more plastic surgery Roseanne underwent the less believable the whole thing became. Her net worth started showing.
Roseanne was The Honeymooners after Alice gained a salty vocabulary (and about 300 pounds); but not really. Although all these shows trace their genes to The Honeymooners, none of them replicates what was great and enduring there. And the difference isn’t Alice—who was a feminist with just a look—but Ralph. The moment we always waited for at the end of The Honeymooners was that moment that saved the world—when Ralph flung Alice into a passionate tango of an embrace and told her, Baby, you’re the greatest. In his own, big, ugly fat guy way, Jackie Gleason was sexy; and you could imagine why Alice was sticking around for more.
Because he loved her. Knew he didn’t deserve her. Knew it was a miracle of Biblical proportions that she was putting up with a big stupid ugly fat guy like him. Knew he was a trickster, a liar, a selfish jerk. But he was sorry. Really sorry. And when he apologized, she knew he meant it. It was Jackie Gleason who perfected the comic’s “I don’t want to say I’m sorry but I have to say I’m sorry” mug moment; and then when he finally got there, his wife couldn’t do anything but melt. He had humility.
The Honeymooners was about salvation, I’m tellin’ ya, about how loves saves. That’s a real fire. Throw another log on. Forget the damn TV.
posted by NancyJo at 6:47 AM
<< Home