“Get me my drink,” keyboard cat says to you.
You stare at keyboard cat, his 5-o’clock shadow, and his red drunken eyes, wondering whether you had ever loved him.
“Whatareya staring at? Get me my drink,” keyboard cat says.
“No,” you say, with a quiver in your voice.
“Whatdidya just say? Didya say no to me?”
Keyboard cat just stares at you until he throws his whiskey glass, which slams and explodes against the wall against your left ear. You cringe.
“I FUCKING,” keyboard cat begins, “WORK 10 FUCKING HOURS A DAY TO PUT FOOD ON THE KIDS—FOOD ON THE TABLE,” he shouts.
You pull your kids closer. You tell yourself you’re just trying to protect them, but deep down you hope he’ll take out some of his anger on them before he hits you.
He undoes his belt and pulls out his ring of keys. You shiver, close your eyes, and wait for the catchy piano music that never comes.
“I’ll see you later, Jeff.”
“No, Grandfather. Don’t go.”
“You know I have to.”
“But it’s dark outside. And cold. And icy. What if you trip?”
“I’ll be fine, Jeff.”
“What if you fall on your back? You know your back is weak, Grandfather.”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
“What if you’re rescued by a beautiful writer? And what if you fall in
love with her, her long auburn hair, her hazel eyes, her warmth and
her smiles? And what if you find true love among the family you create
in Tennessee, deep within a forest, secluded from civilization? Where
amid the intimacy of soulmates you spend the rest of your life,
touching each other’s fingers by the fire in the fireplace you so
carefully construct each morning, your footsteps lingering in the
snow, your humanity forever entwined between your nation of two?”
“I—I’ve never thought about it.”
“Damn right you haven’t, old man.”
Everybody Loves Raymond is a gem among sitcoms. It’s not about
bratty adults, usually post-collegiate, with messy relationships
(Scrubs, Friends, Graey’s Anatomy [which might as
well be a huge medicine joke], How I Met Your Mother, House, The
Office). It’s about a family, but not about kids (Fresh Prince,
Two and a Half Men, George Lopez, The Simpsons, and the list
goes on). It’s about adults in a family, which isn’t dysfunctional,
which is as apparent as the difference between its finale shot—in
which the family sits down for dinner—and the Arrested Development
finale, pre-teaser shot—in which Michael and George-Michael sail away
from their soon-to-be convicted family. It’s one of the last sitcoms
that’s not afraid of love. So many shows treat love as a ten-foot high
dragon with a bad breath and a crippling social awkwardness. It’s “he
might love me, he might not” or “should I commit” or “doesn’t
everybody deserve second chances” when you flip past prime-time
sitcoms about relationships. And it’s annoying that writers can’t
approach love with any kind of sentimentality or tenderness or even
realism because it has to be frigging dragon with a frigging
flamethrower on top of a frigging castle. In fact, the show that
anywhere approaches this level of frankness in dealing with love is
Pushing Daisies on ABC, and it’s being canceled after this season.
(Editor’s note: Fuck you, ABC.) ELR is refreshingly, retrospectively
different. Debra loves Ray, despite their flaws; Marie loves Frank,
despite their flaws. The family loves each other. It’s one of the few
TV shows where I’ve watched all the entire series more than four
times. Because it’s radically different comedy, where you can turn on
the TV and not think, “Ha ha, what horrifyingly emotionally disfigured
people these are” but “What a lovely place to be.”
He’s Chief Justice John Roberts, and his friends call him CJ John. Tom
once tried to call him just “John,” and they still haven’t found his
detainment facility.
CJ John felt a tug at his robes, which were his casual clothes at
home. He looked down into the face of a small child.
“Daddy?” the boy asked.
CJ John put down his newspaper and gavel. “Yes, son?”
“Susie (This is his sister.) took my toy again. I want it back.”
CJ John frowned. This is not the way he taught his children. Perhaps
some parents relaxed their standards in these hedonistic days, but not
him. He still wore robes around the house when the other justices
sometimes, in flagrant mockery of the most solemn process, wore
slacks. Once a photographer put a picture of Stevens wearing a
T-shirt, yes a T-shirt for Christ’s sake; there was hell to pay after
that incident.
“Look, John II, is this how we settle arguments in our house?” he
said, his eyebrows twitching with furious disappointment.
John (just John) turned his eyes to the floor. “No, Chief Justice
Father.”
“That’s right. Susie and you will need to appoint counsel and meet in
a civil suit at the lowest level before appealing your way up to the
appellate courts. Only after that process may you submit a formal
proposal to me via your counsel.”
“But can’t we just this once—”
“I said via your counsel.”
The period held slowly in the air before quietly exiting the room
along with Just John. CJ John picked up his newspaper again.