A Week Late and a Few Bad Clams Short, Me

it's a way of life, don't ya know!

it’s a way of life, don’t ya know!

Leaving things unfinished is somewhat of a family tradition–at least on my Dad’s side of the family. Definitely not on my mother’s side-or at least not on Kat–our beloved blogmistress’ side of the family. She and her siblings all managed to finish college, get proper jobs, and live in homes that didn’t have some form of sheetrock dangling in the background.


Our side? Not so much. Family legend holds that our Nana believed were my father to finish any one room in our then-constantly being renovated home she’d drop dead on the spot. He’d tear down the walls in one room, put up the sheetrock, get an idea for another room, start there, and suddenly our house was an array of jigsaw pieces of sheetrock, paneling and joint compound to varying degrees that drove my mother to madness. His having to work didn’t help, nor did the fact that the local bar was conveniently on the way to the hardware store. What should have been a five-minute drive for supplies usually turned into a three-hour expedition, two and a half of those hours spent sat upon his barstool at said local. When I was nineteen going on twenty he shuffled off to that hardware store in the sky and my mother took some of the dividends of his early departure and finished what he started. We left off the grate on one heat register in the hopes of maintaining Nana’s immortality–which sadly didn’t work, she popped off a few years later.

I'm trying, dammit!

I’m trying, dammit!

This, this, my dears, is one of the reasons I’m convinced I’m so utterly fucked whenever it comes to writing for Kat’s blog. One of many, mind you. My writing (or lack thereof) has always been a bit fucked up and disjointed. I had always put it to the reasons above and the fucking epilepsy. It turns out I was sort of right on both accounts. I used to be smart. I used to be clever. However years of drugs (prescribed, thanks so much) and seizures which they’ve failed to stop have apparently fucked this bitch up. The new dipshit epileptologist had me tested and told me that I’ve got slowed processing speed now. Which, frankly, I didn’t need a test to figure out–my wunderkind math skills give that shit away on the spot. He also said that I now have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder because of the fits and the drugs. A fact which I adamantly refuse to believe.

You however, may rightly see his point, because this post wasn’t supposed to be about any of this shit. It was supposed to be and will eventually be about Craig Ferguson’s last show (yea, it was last week, sue me. I don’t follow anyone’s rules, either). Every time I start to type though, there is a qualifier or a saga or a fucking epic side note. I’ve yet to finish my piece on why Rik Mayall’s death hit me like a ton of bricks. Nor my Hoopy Frood Craigy Birthday trip to LA. That was October, people. Here I am posting about the last show before I even talk about my trip. What I’m saying is, whenever I start to type is, it’s a long story.

A very long story if I tell it.

A very long story if I tell it.

I have always been a late nite devotee–I started years back as a teen watching Johnny Carson and David Letterman–because insomnia goes hand in hand with the time slot. It admittedly goes a bit haywire after 1:37 if you don’t have cable, but noise is noise. Reruns and infomercials are shite but I basked in the glory of 12:37 to 1:37 because it really wasn’t like any other late night show. I thought I’d be so gutted–and I kind of was–but who wants to see someone, anyone, not doing something they’re not having fun with anymore? I loved Craig and Josh (I started watching in 2010) and honestly they’ve ruined late night for me, because everyone else is so by the books it’s ridiculous. Luckily I’ve got tons of Late Late Shows I can catch up with that the Latvians have creatively placed upon the interwebs on the CBS website.

I’m not going to talk about the opening first because I never do anything right, as you can plainly see. So we’ll head right to the monologue where they zipped by ten years of him popping out. Also, appearing on the stage (Sorry, his fault, I couldn’t resist. Also, this is genetic in our family, just ask Kat). Maybe it’s just me and my aged 42 year old inner accent slut, but I think he’s looking good now (a sentiment I know fellow skellies share) but his dejected sigh and warning to never do that to yourself amused me no end, regardless. I don’t think art was a grand term at all. It really was art, not that I know the first thing about art. I know from late night and I know from funny, though. I’ve never seen anything like his show before and I doubt the suits* will ever let it happen again, because suits are morons–such as the suits worship of the beloved demographics etc.

*By suits I mean network execs, obviously

(Case in point, everyone complaining about the successor. It’s not the kid’s fault. It’s all the suits who seem to think the only people who watch TV at 12:30 are male white 18-34 year olds eating pizza after getting the munchies. Suits are dipshits. Or maybe they’re right and I’ve got the mentality of my kid brother in spite of being seven years older and a chick. Suits are still dipshits, though)

-getting wangy with it.

-getting wangy with it.

The faux-argument between Craig and Geoff was brilliant and the bidding adieu CNN bits have always made me giggle so I was quite pleased to see that. The only thing that disappointed me on a deeply personal level was when they got to tweets and emails and I was hoping for one last call from Miriam. I so loved that wretched old cow–I have no idea why. I cannot put into words why I find the Miriam calls so damned funny. Maybe it’s repressed anger at an aunt who no longer speaks to us or maybe, just maybe, because it was fucking hilarious. Yes. I think it’s the second one. And letting Secretariat’s ass-end get a pay raise for one last dance was brilliant–I have missed that goofy bit.

Now I’m going to admit to something highly controversial–I can’t stand Jay Leno. Well, I couldn’t stand Tonight Show Jay Leno, not from day one. His style never really clicked with me on the show and eh. I only ever watched it when someone I really liked was on his show. I’m sure stand-up Leno is quite a nice fellow and normal walk-a-day Leno is, too. My opinion, though, was colored years ago when I saw him take the reins of the Tonight show. I was still mad that Johnny was gone and he was nothing like Carson–to me. That doesn’t mean I’m one of those people who gasped and said ‘My god, he’s having Leno as his last guest?!’ No. Quite the contrary. It just means I’m an old cow who needs to get out more. End of. Also, a side note: I don’t know much about stand-up Leno, either, because good god the whole denim thing? Irked me to shit. Means nothing except he’s probably a great stand-up and I hate all-denim. Also that I get annoyed at the most ridiculous things. I’m a spinster with too much time on my hands. Fuck off. I mean that lovingly, though.

-Bob the Dreamlord?

-Bob the Dreamlord?

The ending was nothing like what I expected but watching it, holy fuck it made absolute perfect sense to me as it unfolded. It was so clever and so funny which is why I wasn’t all that broken up when it ended. I was too busy laughing, as I always do (even if I had shed a tiny tear or two, I’d never admit it, we NY chicks don’t roll that way!). The shout out to the Doctor with the TARDIS. I’d seen the reruns of the original Bob Newhart show and Newhart in the 80s. My brothers and I watched The Drew Carey Show religiously. I remember watching the St. Elsewhere finale with my mother when I was a teen. The only reference I didn’t catch was The Sopranos. Having never had cable during their run my extent of Sopranos knowledge was my brother’s ex telling me about a scene where Big Pussy was bitching about Tupperware. I don’t need to watch The Sopranos, anyway. I live in NYC. I know a guy who knows a guy. Youse know what I mean?

Now allow me to pop into my own TARDIS and go back to the opening. I was gobsmacked. Not just because of how great it was–seeing everyone from Josh with his maracas, to Kristin Bell to Tim Meadows to Metallica to Tutu–and everyone in between–banging their drums with Craig intertwined throughout. I wanted to know who wrote that damned song (Bang Your Drum by Dead Man Fall) because, as Kat will attest once she stops texting me as I write this and listens to the song, it was as if it had been ripped right out of my psyche. I’ve been bitching to Kat for ages now about having shit stuck inside my head and not being able to get it out. Same with my epileptishrink. All you have to do is swap waking at four AM with staying up til four AM and it’s me all over. Cliche and hack, admittedly, everyone says that about songs–but that one hit the nail on my epileptical head.

(Oh. Newsflash. I’ve been going to an epileptishrink for a few months. I’ve got a strong disdain for shrinks in general–another long story for another day–but a dumbass of a neuropsychiatrist thought it a good idea to deal with the ‘stress’ in my life which is one of my many triggers for seizures. Poppycock, I say. Fucking idiots doctors are half the stress in my life. I’m not an moron, though, so I’m willing to give anything a go. Epileptishrink tells me ‘You can’t do anything about this that and the other, it’s beyond your control. You should write. You always talk about writing and how you used to, so write’  I haven’t been able to. Obviously. This post clearly demonstrates that fact)

Anyway, that gobsmackery aside, it was just so great to see him atop his desk rocking out not giving a shit and enjoying himself. And I must say when the choir was revealed from behind the curtain I just thought ‘You clever bastards’ as I thought back to Betty’s hippo choir after banter.

-Kid 'n Peaky Blinders.

-Kid ‘n Peaky Blinders.

I was, of course, sad to see him leave the show–but the show itself didn’t leave me sad, if that makes sense. Like he said, he’ll still do it to us. He may do it earlier. He may do it in a different place–but he’ll still do it. He’s got to bang his own drum and he’s the master of it and will continue to be for a good long while I reckon. He’s not retiring, for gods sake.

My only hope  that I one day figure out which drum in my head I’m supposed to bang on, because I haven’t got a fucking clue. There’s about fifty of the damned things and I’ve got a motherfucker of a headache and I haven’t finished a fucking thing–like this post that was supposed to be about the last show. Not me.

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