So I'm on the couch last night, pretty exhausted after a full week of work, and I'm flippin' through the old program guide to see if there's anything on that I want to watch.
Aha! Quoth I, the local public broadcasting channel appears to be fundraising again! And look at this! My age cohort has finally reached the point where we are the most desirable PBS funders, and so instead of "Roy Orbison: A Black and White Night" or "The Eagles: Gram Parsons is Spinning in His Grave" we have "The Clash: Revolution Rock"!
Well, I worship the Clash in idolatrous fashion, so I was thrilled at the prospect of watching some live Clash footage. So thrilled, in fact, that despite my exhaustion, I thought I might try to stay up to catch just a few minutes of it. I set the DVR to record it, found something else to watch for the thirty minutes until The Clash came on, and promptly fell asleep.
I awoke some forty minutes later to this:
In my sleep-induced fugue state, it took me a minute to figure out exactly what was going on. It crossed my mind that I might actually be in hell. After all, what was it that Sartre said? "L'enfer, c'est la famille Osmond."
I mean, for the love of God, Montresor! There are jokes, and then there's cruelty. Promising The Clash and delivering the Osmonds definitely falls into the latter category. (And why wasn't Jimmy allowed to sing? Look at his pained face as he pounds on the piano off to the side! I mean, given what he did to "Penny Lane" on one of the many episodes of "Fame" where he appeared as the developmentally delayed guy with the supposedly golden voice, it's probably for the best, but geez.) Needless to say, it'll be a while before my local PBS station sees a dime outta me.
