Pioneer Valley Days

On the Cusp of Excitement

In honor of Peter King, Brett Favre's second-biggest fan (I think Dawn has him beat), here are 10 things I think I think after staying up way, way, way too late last night.

1. That went from being a pretty good All-Star Game to a really good one to the fringe of disaster, but in the end it ranks among the most memorable.

2. Weird game, too. Paps gives up a run (with help from Navarro) in an inning in which he gives up just a single and a flyout and fans two. But then Aaron Cook dances on the fringe twice, first escaping unscathed after loading the bases with none out in the 10th, and then, two innings later, allowing the first four batters to reach base, yet again allowing no runs.

3. Granted, the NL needed two phantom tags to get out of the 12th, but there's not much to argue there. They were definitely fringe calls; both throws beat the runner by a good margin, and the umps don't have instant replay. As Lou Piniella told that ump 457 times last night, you're doin' a great job!

4. Dan, that was uggla. As it turns out, though, the three errors didn't wind up hurting nearly as much as stranding six guys on base, including two separate chokejobs with a runner on third and one out. At least you had company, as the two squads combined to go ... (checking official stats online) ... 3 for 114 with runners in scoring position. Please, someone, anyone, knock in a run; you're infringing on our sleep.

5. Removing Jeter mid-inning: classy. Removing A-Rod mid-inning: classy. Bringing in Mo mid-inning: classy. Actively, loudly rooting against your league in the 8th just to stick it to a guy who basically called your stopper the best (like there's any debate), yet said he'd like to close the game anyway? This after the lovely respect Francona gave your starters, and after Drew tied the game? Um, whatever. Listen, I don't get my entire lunatic-fringe worldview from one-word New York Post headlines, so you'll excuse my confusion.

6. Yes, it's about home-field advantage in the World Series, so I understand if the crowd didn't care who won, but excuse us fans of teams who'll still be playing in October if we take just a fringe of interest in the outcome.

7. I know, I know, it's not a big deal. In a country where a great number of people have long been rooting for us to lose a war in order to win elections, a bunch of drunks rooting against their team's league for one inning is a fringe issue at best. But I still can't imagine Yankee fans of even five or 10 years ago -- you know, when they expected to win in October -- being so petty. I expect that sort of thing from Rays fans. Seriously, when I look back at my old life, I'm so thankful I got saved.

8. Loved Buck and McCarver commenting on how much warmer Youkilis' reception was from the crowd. That's funny stuff. Brought me to the fringe of actually tolerating them.

9. I know no one expects All-Star Games to run 15 innings, and managers always want to get as many guys in as they can. So when the game does run long, there's really nothing you can do about having to stick with your fringe players. But, geez, wouldn't the NL have liked to have Berkman or Pujols around after midnight, or what? And since I've just learned this morning that J.D. Drew has a knuckleball, I'm almost sorry it didn't go longer.

10. No baseball tonight, so I guess we'll be sifting through the lean summer TV pickings. Anyone have any viewing recommendations for the fall? I have no idea what's gonna be on. 

Maybe It's Top-50 Material After All

I was wandering around after dinner when Nate picked a snacktime show from the DVR list. I grabbed my ratty kakuro book and a pencil (I will get through all 250 puzzles) and sat down at the end of the couch. Jenn -- who had not yet read yesterday's blog posting, mind you -- lowered her book, looked at me, and said, "You came in here to watch Peep, didn't you?"

Eight years of marriage, people. No secrets.

Joe's TV List Wants to Believe

#16: The X-Files
(FOX, 1993-2002)

Jenn is a wee bit baffled by The X-Files appearing on this list below Wonder Pets, but I don't see why that's so controversial. Wonder Pets, after all, finishes its stories and ties up loose ends. The baby kangaroo doesn't get reunited with its mother only to discover an alien implant in its neck, which is intriguing for awhile and then forgotten about, so that, after the series finale (plot: Tuck drowns when his sink fills with black oil), we're like, "so, what about the baby kangaroo's neck implant?" And years later, the emu shows up on Men in Trees as a pastor. This could be why Mark Snow -- really -- agreed to compose music for the recent Wonder Pets "Save the Visitor" episode, about a lost extraterrestrial: because he wanted to work on something with, you know, closure. On the other hand, the pets never saved a baby flukeman, a baby shape-shifter, or a blight of murderous baby cockroaches. Or even "three baby Peacocks..." "...whose Mommy's stuffed under the bed..." "...this is sewious..." Any of which would certainly have improved the adventures of our classroom heroes, granted. And, sure, The X-Files ran a lot longer than Wonder Pets has so far, and produced some really classic, creepy moments. But then I think of one evening in the spring of 2002, when, with the series finale looming the following week and some 247 plot strings still dangling, Chris Carter gave us a whole hour with a guy who lives with ... wait for it ... the Brady Bunch. At that point, even Linny's head would explode. If she had a TV hookup in her cage, I mean. That's all I'm saying.

The Dude's Cool in a Pinch

Nate finally had his 3-year checkup last week, and I'm starting to wonder if he's really my son. No, he looks nothing like the mailman. But he's intrigued by his own blood in ways I can't comprehend even when I'm not looking straight down at the floor.

I'm a pretentious braggart when it comes to Nate, so I got a kick out of answering the nurse's milestone questions. "Does he climb stairs taking one foot per stair?" she asked at one point. "Sure," I said, thinking about how he conquers swinging ladders and anything else at the playground that leads upward. Even the list of age-related milestones in this pediatric guidebook we have is pretty funny. Three years: Your child can throw an object 5 feet forward. Yes, and smack overhand pitching 40 feet, when he's not lining shots off Jenn's lip. Four years: He can pedal a tricycle 10 feet forward. Yup, ahead of schedule there. Five years: He does not get overly upset when left with a babysitter. If it's Babci or Auntie Sherri, he pretty much pushes us out the door so he can get back to assembling elaborate train-track interchanges. Six years: He can catch a ball with only his hands. Um, by 6 years old, we're expecting at least some feelers from lower-level Sox scouts. Although, while he does hit like Pedroia, he still fields like Lugo and throws like Damon. On one of Damon's good days, but still.

Maybe I'm a jerk, but I just find him delightful, whether he's ditching diapers completely, even overnight, as he did several weeks ago; assembling 24-piece puzzles in a few minutes; or coming up with impromptu jokes in the car ("I'm gonna kick my ball at the park." "Well, don't hit anyone with it, or they'll kick us out." "Yeah, like I kick my ball"). Even when he's serving a timeout for one of his stubborn, 3-year-old screaming fits, I know I'm only minutes away from a hug and feeling proud of him again. I can't help it. He's really cool.

Which brings us to the blood test. Nate was expecting shots and didn't seem too bothered by the idea (then again, he loves bees, even though he clearly remembers -- and still talks about -- being stung last fall during apple picking). As it turns out, he wasn't due for any vaccinations, but he did need a finger prick for a lead test. He jumped a little when he was pierced, after which I tried to get him to look at me. But no -- for the next, oh, 90 seconds, he insisted on staring at the finger from which the nurse was taking drop after drop of blood. She was squeezing blood out of him, and he was simply ... fascinated. And didn't seem to mind. I -- being prone to dizziness due to my lifelong blood-drawing phobia -- was staring down, mostly, and rubbing Nate's chest, although he probably should have been rubbing mine.

He was pretty proud of the "bandy" on his finger and the red mark still there when it came off a little later. And when he told the nurse he was 3 years old, he got to pick out three stickers: two Thomas engines and one with a bunch of dinosaurs. Hard-earned stickers, if you ask me. I was positively beaming, after regaining my balance.

I should add that I recently, with much prodding from Jenn, went for a cholesterol test. I got exactly zero stickers. Wasn't anyone proud of me?

I can also hit overhand pitching, sometimes. And field at least as well as Lugo.

A Duck Is Not a Duck Without His Hat

Tonight, when Jenn asked Nate what he wanted to watch before bed and rattled off the DVR choices, I have to admit I took a rooting interest. He picked Bob the Builder, and I snuck off to the computer for a few minutes. Had he picked Peep, I would have stayed.

Peep and the Big Wide World is a quasi-educational cartoon that teaches kids about various nature and science concepts in a wide-eyed, hey-look-neato kind of way. The emphasis on discovery isn't unlike that of Oobi, except these birds conjugate verbs. But aside from that, the show's just so darn sweet and innocent, and also features one of the great comic characters in all of kids' TV: Quack, a blue-hued duck who looks absolutely nothing like a duck, yet spends his days (a) composing and crooning songs about the general awesomeness of his species, (b) entangling the trusting Peep and the skeptical Chirp in some misadventure or another, or (c) chilling out underwater with a school of fish who idolize him.

Of course, Jenn says I like Peep because Joan Cusack narrates it, but that discounts the show's sharp writing, simple-but-gorgeous animation, and neat banjo soundtrack. Now, I'm not tossing it into my top 50 or anything, because, although I'm taken with the show, it hasn't won my heart in quite the way that, say, Wonder Pets has. (Jenn today, when I mentioned two upcoming entries: "Let me get this straight. Wonder Pets is ahead of The X-Files?") I'm just saying Peep is cool and funny and heartwarming, that's all.

It's certainly better than Barney and Friends, yet another show Nate has recently discovered (thanks, hon), which imparts that everyone is equally special, and has also taught me five very important words: at least it's not Dora.

Waiting for FEMA

Everything Seemingly Is Spinning Out of Control
Photograph, 2008

Nate's Deep Thoughts, #39

Hey, look at me! Mommy and Daddy took me to Look Park todayblrbgh! We rented a picnic table and grilled some hot doghlblgrgh and toasted a few marshmallows, although I think I like them raw better. I’m hardcore like that. We also rode the train … twice! I took Mom both times while Dad waited at the statiogbhlgrghlgh and stewed and complained like a 3-year-old. Suck it up, Dad. Maybe I just like Mom betterghlblghrgh. Mom also pushed me on the swings, which was awesome. On the other hand, the humidity took all the speed out of the slides. No problem ... I just walked up themblgrblrgh! That probably tired me out, because I took a long nap outside on my air mattress after lunch. But this is probably the highlight of the entire day, running around here in the splash areaglbrglbrgh ... although it would be even more funghlblgrblgrgh if Dad would quit telling me to stop drinking the water. He's annoyingrblblgrglblrgh like that. No wonder Mom got two train rides.

What Is Joe's TV List?

#17: Jeopardy!
(Syndicated, 1984-present)

I know Jeopardy! has been around in one form or another since the dawn of time ("Thag kill this with rock." "Uhhh ... deer." "Oh, sorry. You not say what deer"), but I've only seen the Alex Trebek version, so that's what I'm recognizing here in the #17 slot. The high placement is mainly out of awe; I consider myself a fairly intelligent person with way more than my share of useless knowledge, but unless I'm watching, say, the Teen Tournament, I generally can't get more than half the answers (I mean, questions) on any given episode. But just in case your brain feels too broken by the end, this airs right before Wheel of Fortune in many markets, to give your intellect a much-appreciated breather. Seriously, after a long workday, sometimes you need that transition from "What is commedia dell'arte, Alex?" to "T! T! Say T! There are FOUR FREAKING Ts up there, you mouth-breather!" And, let's face it, Alex knows he's hosting a highbrow event ("No, no, no, we were looking for Emperor Vespasian, not Domitian. Vespasian. Hmm. OK, despite that faux pas, you still have control of the board"). I used to watch this (and, yes, Wheel of Fortune, too) almost every night I spent at Nana and Pop Pop's house, and it was fairly obvious to Nana -- especially during the College Championship -- that I was always rooting for the cute girl, and she'd laugh at me. Nana, not the cute girl. Although, had the girl heard my attempts at questioning the high-level answers, she might've had to suppress a few chuckles, too. Oh, shut up, Alex. You try it without cue cards.

Joe's TV List Is Filled with Turtle Meat

#18: Mystery Science Theater 3000
(KTMA, 1988-1989; Comedy Central,
1989-1996; Sci-Fi, 1997-1999)

One bright summer afternoon in 1998, I returned home from a screening of Saving Private Ryan, sat down at my computer, and promptly typed up "Joe's Guide to Moviegoing," 10 tidbits of escalating obscenity masquerading as advice for my fellow patrons, along the lines of "stop @#$%ing complaining about the popcorn prices," "shut the @#$% up about having to sit through commercials and trailers," and "quit @#$%ing whining about the Jimmy Fund appeal." But my ire was most concentrated on certain emotionally stunted twits who felt compelled to supply additional dialogue to the official screenplay during key moments. But, again, this was Saving Private Ryan. Maybe I wouldn't have minded so much had it been Eegah!, Manos: Hands of Fate, or one of several Gamera adventures, and if we had been forced to watch them, as were Joel Hodgson (later Mike Nelson) and a pair of snarky robot companions. Perhaps the most arcane of comic endeavors (really, the more obscure references you can follow, the funnier it is), MST3K attracted a hardcore cult following during its lengthy run, yet always stayed true to its ultra-low-budget origins, in both its shaggy-dog ethos and its pawn-shop props and set design. Occasional episodes could drag, but when the Satellite of Love crew latched onto a turkey for the ages like Cave Dwellers ("Uh-oh, the fog's starting to obscure the action." "What action?"), well, let's just say no one was in a hurry to rescue their asses.

Joe's TV List Can Crow Like a Rooster

#19: The Magic Garden
(WPIX, 1972-1984)

Quick recipe for magic: take two unreformed hippies, dress ’em in the swingin’ styles of the ’70s, and give ’em playground swings to sit on. Throw in a surly pink squirrel, an overmedicated bird, a chest full of dress-up garb, and a bunch of flowers that laugh at some of the worst jokes ever told, and you have The Magic Garden, one of the happiest, corniest, most inclusive kids’ shows to grace the small screen (well, screens in the Tri-State area, anyway). During the heyday of Romper Room, Zoom, and Mister Rogers, Carole Demas and Paula Janis easily outcharmed all of them with an acoustic guitar, some low-tech puppetry, and some of the most unappealing hairstyles ever sported by otherwise attractive women. I'm not sure the show's sweet simplicity -- basically a half-hour of singing kiddie standards and acting out classic fables -- would even work today, which is why it's refreshing to know that Carole and Paula are still kickin' it old school at small concert venues and children's birthday parties. Where I'm sure the parents all stand around with silly grins on their faces while the kids just mill about, incredulous and scowling, before heading upstairs to play Grand Theft Auto IV and upload breathless confessionals to YouTube. Times change. But not in the garden.

Joe's TV List Stays After to Clean the Erasers

#20: Head of the Class
(ABC, 1986-1991)

During the first season of Head of the Class, one of my English teachers complained that no school would ever let a substitute teacher take over an advanced-learning program. Because, clearly, no public school would ever make a decision based on expediency rather than the welfare of the child. How could ABC even think it? Well, aside from some of them taking five years to graduate, this bunch didn’t fare too badly. And in the eyes of a certain 15-year-old from Connecticut, Khrystyne Haje’s Simone was one smoking-hot literature geek, although the actress’ parents really should serve time for a premeditated assault on vowels. My fondness for Howard Hesseman’s gang of smartass bleeding hearts probably stemmed from the gifted program I had attended once a week during grades 4-6. We did a lot of creative, independent-project-type stuff that seemed more like playing than school to me, and I remember we watched the first space shuttle launch on TV. Sure, we never visited Russia or produced a music video that completely missed the point of "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades," but I like to think some of my classmates went on to greatness. Maybe none of us became an ace TV producer like Dan Schneider, but hey -- none of us married Mike Tyson, either.

Hey, Officer! How Much Wood Could I Ch-- Hey, What's THAT?

This is a woodchuck, although for most of his adventure wandering our neighborhood today, we thought he was a gopher, or perhaps a groundhog announcing six more weeks of chilly spring. We found him outside after Ripley spent 15 minutes pacing back and forth between the door and the window and basically driving us insane with the incessant tick-tick-tick of her nails against the wood floor. When Jenn looked outside to see what was getting under Ripley's skin, she found Mr. Woodchuck, walking slowly in circles around our side yard and under our cars. We think he was limping, but it's hard to tell with legs that small. He certainly wasn't right.

We sent Ripley down to the basement so she couldn't escape into the street and get into a possibly dangerous tussle, and Jenn called the cops to report the varmint. By the time she went back outside, a few other folks were keeping watch on the possibly-rabid woodchuck. My next-door neighbor, Mike, was watching the action from his front porch with a beer and his young son, clearly finding this more interesting than, say, Red Sox-Orioles. "Not since Jimmy Carter met with Hamas has a weasel gotten this much attention," I told him. I got a rim shot for my trouble. A few minutes later, we both had our cameras out.

The officer pulled up some 15 minutes after we called, which was certainly an improvement over the time, about seven years ago, we called around midnight to report an almost-certainly-rabid coyote in the woods behind our house. That officer didn't arrive for about 45 minutes, because some driver sideswiped him on the way over. Today's patrolman, thankfully dent-free, located the woodchuck, but stayed in his car for a minute or two.

"Probably calling animal control," someone said. "He doesn't want to touch him." Then he got out of the car and started behind the hedges where the rodent had made itself comfortable, partially blocking our view. "He's getting close. Is he going to grab him by himself?" I asked. "I don't know," someone said. "I thought animal contr--"

BLAM.

One shot. That's it. It was like the least successful Wonder Pets mission ever:

"A baby woodchuck..."
"...walking in circles..."
"This is sewi--"
BLAM!
(Long pause)
"Um, Linny, do we still get our celery?"

There was no warning from the cop, not even to ask Mike if he'd like to bring his kid inside first. However, the officer did, after the summary execution, ask Mike if he had a garbage bag. As it turns out, he had one. A shovel, too. And now, a lovely present for the trash collectors tomorrow.

I walked back in the house, where Maverick stood at the front door and promptly threw up at my feet. Probably the gunfire. Ripley got paroled, and they both went out into the fenced backyard to chase squirrels and wonder why only people in uniform get to go after the really big prey.

Later, Manny and Lowell went back-to-back, I started some laundry and did some blogging, and our neighborhood was back to normal. That's good -- the woodchuck was probably in pain, and you just don't want senseless animals wandering in circles for no apparent reason.

Which brings me to my Mom's pomeranian, Miki.

Joe's TV List Gets Sent to the Cornfield

#21: The Twilight Zone
(CBS, 1959-1964)

My Mom has this antique doll named Mae Starr, who has real human hair and very likely wanders the house at night crying real human tears, which may explain why the pomeranians have never calmed down like normal dogs. Besides marrying Julie, I believe the very existence of Mae was the main reason my brother, Jeff, moved out. Anyway, I sometimes called her “Talky Mae” because of The Twilight Zone, the only series to date in which a doll pushes Telly Savalas to his death down a flight of stairs. (Well, I think it's the only one, but I never watched Kojak, so I can’t say for sure.) Despite those occasional flights into camp, Rod Serling’s masterful anthology series remains one of the most thoughtful, literate half-hours in TV history, and certainly among the most influential. I imagine its playful edginess made an even greater impact during the Father Knows Best era, and at its best, the head-spinning twists (broken glasses, a broken stopwatch, an alien cookbook) became instant cultural touchstones; the latter, for example, became a great escalating gag on a Simpsons “Treehouse of Horror” episode. If you're still not convinced of Serling's greatness, at least sit back and enjoy the spectacle of the only sentient, talking doll ever to have its head squeezed in a vise on TV. (Well, I think it's the only one, but I never watched Small Wonder, so I can’t say for sure.)

Here's Where the Sleeping Starts

I don't know how we made it this long, but we're all pretty sick of Bedtime Lullabies from Johnson's, so we retired that dog-eared disc to Nate's closet. But what to replace it with? He fell asleep to Alison Krauss quite a bit last year, but he didn't seem all that interested when we dusted her off over the weekend. So two nights ago, I went with my gut and popped in the Sundays. Last night, he asked for Harriet again. What can I say? The kid's got taste.

Joe's TV List Walks Out $50 Poorer

#22: Night Court
(NBC, 1984-1992)

Broad comedy (and not ‘broad’ the way Dan Fielding might use the term) is tough to pull off, but as the longtime back-end anchor of NBC’s Thursday-night comedy block, Night Court managed to be both humane and slapsticky, often at the same time, and make the effort seem graceful. Networks were more patient then; the show didn’t really soar until a few seasons into its run, when Markie Post came on board and most of the seismic cast shuffling (God bless Marsha Warfield, who surely knew she was staring down certain death by taking that role) was in the rear-view mirror. Dan Larroquette won all the individual awards (and his chemistry with Post was remarkable), but Harry Anderson, previously best-known for his can-you-top-this appearances on Cheers, brought an underrated humanity to the nonsense – and what glorious nonsense it could be, what with recurring roles for the likes of Yakov Smirnoff, Mel Torme, and a pre-Data Brent Spiner. In the end, Night Court worked because it was funny – but it remains inspiring, too. After all, wrapping up my monthly newsletter-design project kept me up well into the wee hours last night, but Harry once got through 207 cases before midnight – and won an arm-wrestling match to boot. Well, he had help, but still.

My Life Has Gone to Sh...aring Parenting Stories

What the hell happened?

It was all going so well. Thanks to Skittles, preschool, and our own diligence, Nate was -- the occasional accident notwithstanding -- essentially potty-trained. Not only was he peeing like clockwork, he was setting higher goals:

"Did you pee?"
"Yeah."
"OK, you're done?"
"No, I want to poop, Daddy."
"OK, then."

And sometimes he'd poop, and sometimes not, but the point is, he was a man with goals. He enjoyed pooping. He'd often accompany his successful efforts with a satisfying grunt or two. Oh, sometimes he'd still argue when you told him to go to the bathroom, but he'd always wind up in there, stripping, doing his business, dressing, and, if you reminded him, washing his hands. We were impressed. His teachers were impressed. Life was good.

Then, four days ago, Nate pooped his pants. No big deal; it's happened before. I cleaned up the mess, encouraged him to to tell me when he had to go, and that was that. Then, the following evening, about 15 minutes after he peed and assured me he didn't have to poop, he darkened his pants again. That ended the show he was watching and landed him in bed, although it was pretty close to bedtime anyway. Hmmm. Two days straight. Trend?

Yup. Next morning, he announced he had to poop, but it was already in his shorts by the time he got to the bathroom. Half-credit, I think. But maybe not, since he had this conversation with Jenn while he sat on the toilet just a half-hour before:

"Do you have to poop?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You don't have any poops to do?"
"Noooo, Mommy! I don't have to poop!"
"You'll tell Mommy if you have to poop, right?"
"Yeeees."
"You really don't have to poop?"
"No."

And so on. Later that day, I managed to get him to do a little more on the toilet with the promise of Skittles, but on Monday, Nate was back to schizophrenic waste disposal: peeing consistently and impressively, like the Sox bats when they're at Fenway, and pooping like ...well, like a West Coast swing. We were about to head out for the local farmstand for ice cream last night when Nate pulled down his pants to pee, and other activity was already in progress. Ice cream was quickly replaced by a bath, bed, and a grilling from both of us over whether he'd like us to buy him more diapers, take apart the racecar bed, put the crib back up, and move him back to the infant room at school. Yes! Psychological warfare!

I don't think he dislikes potty-pooping; I just think he gets involved in an activity and doesn't want to interrupt it, not realizing that undie-soiling will effectively end it. Whatever the case, Jenn's going away on a work trip for a few days, and she has promised Nate that if he has a good week pooping on the potty, we can make the ice cream run next weekend. As for me, I've gone back to Skittle rewards, and I've already been rewarded with an actual potty poop this morning (after 10 minutes of Nate insisting he didn't have to go, of course). So, here's to a better week. Nate's already more upbeat about the prospects, as the friendly cashier at Barnes & Noble found out this morning when Nate placed the new Nora Roberts (for his mom's trip) on the counter:

"You're a very good helper, aren't you?"
"Yeah. And I did poops!"

Joe's TV List Plays Ball in the House

#23: The Brady Bunch
(ABC, 1969-1974)

Hey, Fluffy the cat here, and I've got some, um, confessions to make. See, they were planning to write me out after the pilot. I tried to escape at the wedding, but they corraled me. Said they were taking me to visit some youth in Asia. But I got away again. They never did find me, but I was always around, hiding in the corners of that crappy house in California -- you know, the one where the exterior facade didn't match the interior, and Mr. Brilliant Architect installed one bathroom for six kids. They never did know all the damage I caused. But who do you think really broke the vase? Who summoned the Tiki gods and brought down horrible curses in Hawaii? And Marcia's nose injury? Actually a deep, infected scratch. Oh, I was everywhere. I sent Cindy those love notes to screw with her head. I switched Mike's plans with a Yogi Bear poster. I locked Bobby and Greg in the freezer. I curled up beside Jan every night and softly purred suggestions of inadequacy and self-loathing in her ear. And who do you think pushed Tiger's ball into the road at rush hour? Things like that don't just happen, you know. They finally caught me passing notes to the producers about the need to add an obnoxious cousin to the cast, and I got hauled off to the pound, but the damage was done. I had my revenge. Oh, don't look at me like that. What's that? Other actors haven't turned into sociopaths after being written off shows? Really? Tell that to Chuck Cunningham, last seen dragging a kerosene barrel away from Arnold's, the light from the flames shining in his eyes like dancing laughter.

Joe's TV List Unpacks Its Adjectives

#24: Schoolhouse Rock
(ABC, 1973-1986, 1993-1996)

It’s an oft-repeated legend that countless Gen-X schoolkids, when asked to write the preamble of the U.S. Constitution from memory, sang softly to themselves as they scribbled. Of course, they all got points docked for jumping right from “We the people” to “in order to form a more perfect union” because Schoolhouse Rock didn’t bother to include “of the United States.” Oh, well. These three-minute shorts – 52 in all – got most everything else right, whether it was Interplanet Janet touring the solar system, Lolly spouting off about adverbs (not as memorably as Tom Lehrer did on The Electric Company, but close), or Jack Sheldon giving immortal voice to a downtrodden bill longing for his chance to become a law (today, he’d be a crumpled judicial nomination stuffed behind Nancy Pelosi’s filing cabinet). Schoolhouse Rock was a misnomer – the music tended more toward jazz and pop than rock – but the educational value was immense, ranging from grammar and math to science and American history. Still, history is an ever-changing beast, and when the Dems control everything next year, it would be nice if the show returned to document our cheerful descent into socialism, with winning numbers like “You’d Just Spend It on Your Family” and “Siphon This.” The latter would tell the witty story of how the environmental lobby and Democratic lawmakers spent decades restricting America’s ability to drill and refine its own oil, leading to overdependence on unstable foreign markets, all the while extorting billions in revenues from oil companies, yet somehow Republicans got blamed when prices hit $4 per gallon. It would be hilarious. Someone call Jack Sheldon.