2001-09-25 - 10:16 p.m.
Last night was Veg Out in Front of the Teevee Nite. I rarely have nights like that anymore. For one thing, my TV viewing has dropped by at least 90 percent in the eight years or so since I discovered the Internet. And even when the TV is on I normally stay seated at my desk with one eye on the computer screen instead of nestled comfortably in my recliner with a beer or a bong the way God intended TV to be enjoyed. But I�m all about simple pleasures these days, and ever since I heard that the Taliban puts people in jail for having TV sets I�ve been determined to suck up as much of the boob tube as I can. Fortunately, FX has started showing reruns of Buffy, and the cast of the Brady Bunch was on the Weakest Link last night, which meant a full hour of Anne "That Bitch from Britain" Robinson heaping verbal abuse on Bobby, Cindy, Greg, Marcia-Marcia-Marcia ... everyone but Mike (because he�s dead) and Alice (because she might as well be).
Take that, Taliban.
Two observations from last night:
1. Wow! There actually used to be a time when Buffy the Vampire Slayer actually slew vampires.
2. Cousin Oliver is still a twit.
Just to be clear on that second point ...
HEY, OLIVER! IT�S ME, MIGUELITO! YOU THOUGHT I�D FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU, DIDNTJA? YOU WERE AN ANNOYING TWIT IN COLLEGE AND YOU�RE STILL AN ANNOYING TWIT NOW, YOU HEAR ME? YOU THINK THAT RATTY GOATEE AND THOSE EMO GLASSES MAKE YOU LOOK COOL? THEY MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE PAUL WILLIAMS� AND RICKI LAKE�S LOVE CHILD, THAT�S WHAT! I�M GLAD YOU GOT VOTED OFF FIRST, GLAD, I TELL YOU! NOW GO HOME AND WRITE SOME HOBBIT SONGS!
Perhaps I should explain why I hate Cousin Oliver.
Yes, I knew him in college. Actually, "knew" is too strong a word--we had a few of the same classes. He was always like, "Hey, look at me--I was Cousin Oliver in The Brady Bunch," and the truly galling thing was that every kiss-ass in the student body bought into it and treated him like he was the biggest celebrity ever to set foot on our campus. One day I could stand it no longer and asked him, snottily, "Hey, why weren�t you in �The Brady Girls Get Married,� anyway?" Immediately his face turned to stone and he fixed me with an icy stare. I knew then we would be lifelong enemies.
Plus, he once cut in line ahead of me to use one of the copiers in the library and by the time he was done the damn thing was out of toner.
He was also in a band. Remember, this was the mid-�80s--punk and new wave had both peaked and grunge was just another word for smegma. Being "in a band" at that time meant Spandex and lots of it. Spandex plus Cousin Oliver. Do the math.
One day I showed up at school to find the campus papered with fliers for a show his band was playing that night at this skanky club in North Hollywood. Normally wild hyenas couldn�t have dragged me there, but some good friends of mine really wanted to go, if only so they could rag on it for the rest of the semester. It took some convincing on their part, but since I liked a good rag as much as the next guy, I eventually caved in.
What a mistake that was. The whole thing was a regular smorgasbord of �80s corporate-rock horribleness. Spandex. Hairspray. Swirling keyboards. Those cheezy fake drums that sound like the blaster-guns on Battlestar Galactica--"DOW-dow-dow-dow DOW-dow-dow-dow!" I think I and my friends were the only kids from school who were there--the rest were regulars, which at this club meant Iranian refugees who�d just arrived in this country with nothing but the disco clothes on their backs. The whole scene was so awful that it defied ragging.
So we sought relief in large amounts of alcohol.
Eventually I had to use the can, and I made the mistake of leaving my beer unattended. After doing my business (and being very careful not to touch anything in the process) I zigzagged back to my table and picked up my beer for a big, manly swig--only to find someone had put their cigarette out in it. I guess my face turned purple right away because one of my friends leapt up right away and did a drunken approximation of the Heimlich maneuver on me, clearing the cigarette butt from my windpipe but also cracking one of my ribs in the process.
Then, the same person who�d saved my life spent the entire drive home puking her guts out in the back of my van.
So, ever since that night, whenever I see Cousin Oliver, this is what comes to mind: bad music, even worse beer, nearly choking to death on a cigarette butt, and having to drive around for the next month with all the windows open during one of the rainiest winters in L.A. history in order to purge the smell of vomit from my car.
That, my minions, is why I hate Cousin Oliver.
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