They obviously watch too much TV

Our kids have decided, for the third consecutive summer, not to watch television while school is out. My wife and I fully support their decision, since most of what's offered on the cretin cube is nothing but pixy stix for the gray matter. Sports and movies are exempt from the moratorium.

We suggested another television-free summer to our offspring after overhearing one of their conversations a couple of weeks ago, recording it, and playing it back for them. Here is the transcript, with footnotes:

Older daughter: I think maybe we've been watching too much TV. Not that there's anything wrong with that. (1)

Younger daughter: Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, (2) Zoe? 

Older daughter:  Whoa (3),  just relax, Lauryn. We can start up again in the fall.

Younger daughter: Well isn't that special? (4) Actually, I guess it worked out pretty well when we were on a break. (5)

Older daughter: Yep. And when I talked to Mom about it, that's what she said. (6)

Younger daughter: It's so tempting, though. What if I get caught watching Hoarders or Sixteen and Pregnant?

Older daughter: I guess you'll have some 'splainin' to do. (7)

Younger daughter: I've already got it figured out. I'll just say something like, "I'm just checking to make sure the remote still works." Yeah, that's the ticket. (8)

Older daughter: And if Mom asks me what I know about it, I know nothing. (9)

Younger daughter: I don't think you'll have to worry about it. Mom's an ignorant slut. (10)

Older daughter: Excuse me! (11) If she ever heard you say that, that would be it. No soup for you! (12) By the way, why are you clutching your Barbie so tightly?

Younger daughter: Because they killed Kenny. (13)

Older daughter: Okay, stifle it. (14) I hear someone coming.

Younger daughter: That was close. They almost heard us. Missed it by that much. (15)

I think we're making the right decision.

Television show glossary:
(1) Seinfeld
(2) Different Strokes
(3) Happy Days
(4) Saturday Night Live
(5) Friends
(6) The Office
(7) I Love Lucy
(8) Saturday Night Live
(9) Hogan's Heroes
(10) Saturday Night Live
(11) Saturday Night Live
(12) Seinfeld
(13) South Park
(14) All in the Family
(15) Get Smart

Judge not, lest yeast be judged

Any time my family and I embark on a little road trip, as we did this past long weekend, we encounter a period of re-acquainting ourselves with each other. As is the case with most families, our separate lives behave like free radical particles, loosely orbiting a nucleus, otherwise known as our brick rambler.

But this weekend, the chickens came home to roost as we piled into the awesome, sporty and dirty 2003 Kia minivan for a little weekend junket to our time-share condo in Port Townsend, Washington. It's a trip we've made scores of times in the past, but each trip is a bit lighter—no more portable high chairs, strollers, playpens, bibs or baby monitors—than the time before. It's also more contentious each time, as my older daughter struggles mightily with those in her presence. She's at that age where the worst day with a friend beats the best day with a parent. I've been meaning to tell her how much I appreciate her willingness to go out to dinner and watch cable TV. Please remind me to do that.

Since my wife can actually balance 17 plates in the air at once, while I can hold one with two hands at the same time, she utilized the three-hour drive to grade papers and instruct the girls to write thank you notes for their Valentine's Day money from the grandparents and aunt (By the way, when did kids start receiving greenbacks for VDay?).

They whipped out the notes in record time, so Terri decided to give them a once-over. Lauryn, our nine-year-old, simply wrote "Thanks, Love You," three times. Zoe, the fourteen year-old, expressed herself a bit further, writing, "Thanks for the money. I'm going to use it to buy food."

Hmmm. I guess that's a good way to get more money next time. Just play the old hunger card.

We arrived and settled into the small condo outside Port Townsend, and it didn't take the kids long to find the trashiest shows on the telly. The Real Housewives of New Jersey, as much as I hate to admit it, has unseated The Bachelor as the absolute king of swill. I decided, after viewing a mere three, one-hour episodes, that this show was invading our brain synapses like LCD methamphetamine. Then we saw previews for other "Real Housewife" shows from New York and Orange County, and Lauryn wondered out loud if Real Housewives of Montana would contain as much venom.

After dinner, Terri and I decided to leave the girls to the trappings of the television, while we headed into town for a screening of Crazy Heart.

"Hey, Zoe, want to wrestle after they leave?" inquired Lauryn.

"Okay, but I have to pluck my eyebrows first." Zoe has a knack for being both twenty-four and four at the same time.

Terri and I left without further comment.

We arrived at the small movie house in downtown Port Townsend, a Victorian burgh brimming with bohemian charm, if not full-blown hippie. I love the place, and I'm certain there's a Woodstock groupie itching to burst out of me, but some of the traits of the inhabitants of this hamlet are even a little over-the-top for this old, tie-dyed soul.

I must have seen at least four grey-haired "skullets," or bald men with ponytails. In addition as we walked through the concession area of the theater, we noticed a jar at the condiment table that appeared to be Parmesan cheese. Upon further examination, however, we discovered that the stuff was yeast. Yes, yeast. Yeast to sprinkle on your popcorn. Gross. That's like putting wheat on your rice.

At that point, I told myself, "Stop being so judgmental. You preach to your kids about jumping to conclusions regarding people you don't know, and here you are, doing just that."

Then I saw the dog with dreadlocks.

The Bachelor gets my vote for worst show ever

Yesterday afternoon, as I sat next to my nine-year-old daughter,  I looked over and asked her, "Lauryn, who do you look up to?"

"I don't know. Why are you asking me that?"
"I'm just curious as to who kids look up to these days."
"Umm, well, you, I guess." That was nice to hear, if not completely heartfelt.
"Thanks, Laur. But I'm just wondering, of the people you see on TV or read about, whom do you admire?"
"I like Beyoncé. And Miley Cyrus."
"Would you say those are your heroes?" I tried to ask this without betraying any irony in my voice.
"Not really," she replied. "They're more like idols...oh! I know. The rescuers who pulled the people in Haiti out of the rubble and helped them. Those are heroes."

That was a refreshing statement to hear from my daughter. At least she can discern between true courage and true celebrity.

It seems harder and harder for our kids to make these distinctions. My older daughter has grown up witnessing a new class of American pseudo-icons—the reality television stars. One of her favorite shows is The Bachelor, where a large gaggle of Barbie look-alikes vie for the affections of one Ken look-alike. The premise is for him to find his soul mate within a few episodes, sponsored by Pepsi. The guy is portrayed as the man every parent wants his or her daughter to marry—handsome, smart, sensitive and, above all, wealthy. Call me old and cynical, but this is one of the worst television shows, let alone reality shows, I've ever laid eyes upon. The bachelor is forced to eliminate one candidate every show in "the rose ceremony," thereby sending her packing in tears with just a memory of what might have been.

The remaining contestants survive another week. I guess we have to assume that they're all equally in love with Joe All-American; this is prime time "love light," not "let's-start-out-as-friends-then-date-for-a-while-then-see-where-things-go-over-the-next-couple-of-years" love.

I doubt that either party to this faux-courtship series would qualify as a hero to my other daughter, the fourteen-year-old, but just the fact that she enjoys the show is a little disturbing to me. If I might climb into my Ward Cleaver "When I Was A Boy" Wayback Machine, my heroes were usually athletes or astronauts. In fact, I knew the name of each Apollo explorer, as well as the mission at hand, whether it was orbiting Earth, the moon or the big one—landing on the lunar surface. Neil Armstrong was the king of cool, and I would have easily chosen him over Joe Namath or David Cassidy to show up as a surprise guest to my ninth birthday party.

I'm thinking about instituting a moratorium on reality shows in our house. Either that, or for every reality show my daughters watch, they have to read an article about someone who has actually contributed to society, rather than someone who simply indulges the viewing public's 21st century voyeurism.

ABCNBCCBSCNNMTVFOX

There's something slightly magical about that moment each evening, with the kids tucked away and the nightly chores wrapped up, when my age-worn glutious maximus burrows itself into the leathery softness that is the family room sofa. The remote seems to magically appear in the palm of my hand, its cold, smooth plastic all but saying, "Welcome back, old friend."

Such was the case last night, as I flipped on the idiot box (By the way, this post is part deux, the nighttime edition, of my two part series on television.). 

The first show I came across was a Discovery Channel offering, about life in the Las Vegas County Jail. It documented the lives of the prison staff and, yes, the prisoners. Featured last night was an inmate named "Snake." He'd been arrested 27 times, was part of a skinhead Nazi gang and had more tattoos than brain cells. Snake proudly stated that he refused to share a cell with anyone who wasn't white, and therefore would immediately fight any cellmate who wasn't of the Caucasian persuasion, thereby securing a private room for himself. What a guy. As Snake proudly showed off his ripped upper body for the camera, it appeared evident that the guy spent most of his time powering out sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups and whatever other "-ups" could be performed in a six-by-nine-foot box.

At that moment, I reached a moment of clarity—television has reached an all time low. The networks have now decided to offer up the most racist, moronic felon as a reality TV celebrity.

It was certainly a slow evolution to this state of affairs, so let's try and retrace how we arrived at this point.

The 1970s:

No reality shows to speak of, unless you counted Battle of the Network Stars, in which actors from the various networks competed against each other in endeavors athletic. You might see the guy who played "Tattoo" on Fantasy Island arm wrestle Mary Tyler Moore, or Farrah Fawcett could possibly race Suzanne Somers in the 100-yard jiggle. Solid viewing if you're fifteen years old, which I was.

The 1980s:

Television was extremely well-acted, plot-driven and highly dramatic, with shows like "Magnum P.I." ," The A Team" and "Alf." However, a storm was a-brewin', with the premier of the Neil Armstrong of reality shows—Cops—and TV would never be the same. Here's just a sampling of this riveting reality pioneer:

Cop: "Do you know why I pulled you over?

Shirtless Guy: "Because I'm not wearing a shirt?"

Cop:"No, because your car is weaving across five lanes of traffic. Does that pipe in your hand belong to you?"

Shirtless Guy: "No, I'm holding it for my six-month-old baby. That's her sliding around in the back seat."

The 1990s:

MTV's The Real World redefines our desire to watch people at their worst. For the first time, we witness the visible adrenaline of an exchange like this:

Jason: "Where's my peanut butter?"

Ashley: "Puck ate it."

Jason: "Puck, did you eat my peanut butter?"

Puck: "Yeah."

The 2000s:

At this point, all bets are off, there's so much goodness to choose from. We can see nearly-naked, morbidly obese people standing on scales. We can watch washed-up celebrities suck up to a billionaire with a comb-over. We can watch convicted felons boast about their hateful ways.

Or, we can watch our index finger push down, a little too hard, on the "off" switch.