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I’m hanging out in this apartment in Miami again, whiling away the time sitting in a chair on the balcony gazing down 15 floors to the beach and street below. Cars going by, boats in the water. Then I see a wheeze of geezers across the way, next to a tennis court, playing some game on a long rectangular strip of astroturf, dressed in sweat pants and parkas. It must be down to 68 degrees outside. They take turns rolling balls down the rectangle. It’s an almost motionless game which I’m going to call “lawn bowling” even if it’s not. Ball rolls, six geezers watch it roll to a stop, different ball rolls, six geezers watch it roll to a stop. I watch it for a few minutes, idly absorbing possible rules of play.

After the 14th or 15th ball rolls down the rectangle, I find myself inexplicably saying “nice shot.”

I’d have to be pumped full of powerful chemicals before I’d contemplate doing what he’s doing. Vic Falls, I think; in some pool that is accessible only when the water’s low.

I was watching an episode of “Guess Who Married Your Mother?” or “I Married Your Mother?” or “Guess I Totally Bagged Your Mother!” a few minutes ago in the kitchen of this place in Miami I hang out in. The show was doing what all these shows do from time to time, which is to trot out an ex-star and have the “real people” played by the regular actors moon over him like he was the second coming of Christ Almighty. Or her, waltzing in as Mary. But in this case it was Patrick Swayze, so the Christ metaphor is probably the one to go with. Anyhow, it was one of those “Don’t look now, but PATRICK SWAYZE is sitting at the table right behind you.” “PATRICK SWAYZE? RIGHT BEHIND ME? [looks, swoons]“

The regular actors on this show play people who I assume are in their mid to late twenties. I play a person who is in his mid forties; I barely remember who Patrick Swayze is. I’m not sure I could pick him out of a police lineup unless he actually was the shit who knocked me down and took my wallet half an hour beforehand. The man flash-danced twenty years ago. Or danced dirtily, whatever. Since then he’s been in a string of piddly-ass movies. Or has had piddly-ass parts in slightly more than piddly-ass movies. The point is that the generation blankers on this show can’t POSSIBLY really know who he is, let alone adore him enough to suck his cock. But there they go.

Remember when Carroll O’Connor sucked Sammy Davis, Jr’s cock on “All in the Family?” Or when Gary Coleman sucked Nancy Reagan’s cock on “Diff’rent Strokes?” Sure you do. Is this a contractual thing? Or is it just somebody on the show asking for a favor, or (more likely) doing a favor for one of their old heroes who’s fallen on hard times? It’s probably that. That’s what it probably is.

I don’t mind favors being done for friends. Of course that’s a good thing. But when they’re not my friends, when it happens so publicly, when the favor involves me in the transaction somehow, then I start minding it. There should be a warning scroll during the show, to allow me time to change channels before I’m compelled to see things untoward: “Patrick Swayze’s cock sucked in the following episode, viewer discretion advised.” That sort of thing.

panel 1: man and dog outside, man bending over to pet dog.

panel 2: man and dog standing there looking at each other.

panel 3: same as panel 2, but man says: “That being said, go shit in someone else’s yard.”

I’d never seen the show until it was on the inflight screens on a New Orleans-Miami leg last night. I happened to have some earbuds with me, so I tapped into the sound. Abomination! An all-around abomination! The acting, the directing, the writing–especially the writing–all designed to infuse me with hatred for those associated with this show. And by extension, all mankind.

The show is filled with so many cliches; so many cliches. The wise father who can be an idiot about the small things but knows the big picture; the wiser wife; friends and family, all wise in their own ways; the wise dog; and the single unwise, un-self aware antagonist lurching through the show that the others all will make wise in time.

From what depths of cynicism did this thing come? Because the writers, the producers, everyone, all had to be deeply cynical to allow this thing to waft over the airways. “Let’s make a Christian show,” they said. “Let’s make a Christian show that the people who write in complaining about real shows will watch.” So they called in their hacks and desperate has-beens and this thing, this rough beast, slouched toward Hollywood to be born.

The child actors! Make them sound like miniature adults, with miniature complex relationships with their miniature pals! And let there be huge, awkward spaces of silence when characters read the spines of books or gaze off into the middle distance as other characters leave and enter scenes! And let the bridges between awkward gaps be filled with soft little lighthearted jokes about milk! Yes, let that happen! And give some real people some lines, too, so that the painfully embarrassing shortcomings of the show can be refocused on them. And make them retarded! Christians love that!

I have this colossal hatred for 7th Heaven.