Barker and Bradbury--the Lethal Cocktail

One should know that one is in trouble if one’s eyes well-up when someone wins a BRAND NEW CAAHR! on “The Price is Right.” Oh no, I’m not talking about myself; it’s just a general warning. Actually, I am speaking of myself. About two weeks ago, I came upon the old show with Bob Barker that plays every week day at 11:00 a. m. I may have watched it occasionally, when I was a kid, but I was certainly never one of those rabid fans who run to the front, jumping and shrieking like speed freaks with handmade T-shirts acclaiming a lifelong love for Bob.

However, I’ve got to say that I watched it that day, and found myself floating into a, how do I describe it, feeling of euthanized bliss. It was so nostalgic, so unchanging, so unthreatening. I was back in the fifties again, in a world where the most stress came from not knowing the exact price of Johnson's Baby Oil. I became fascinated that the women hostesses of the show, even in this day and age, are willing to humiliate themselves in such cheezy setups for the showcases, pantomiming shticks that would embarrass even Red Buttons. Is it even possible that a time existed when a person made an entire “career” using that name? Then there’s Red Skelton and Soupy Sales, of course.

So I was mesmerized.

Then the next day, intolerably frustrated, my heart pounding as my deadlines crashed upon me and I made no progress, I turned the show on again. At first, I laughed at the silliness of it all. But, now I relax and hope with all of my heart that the contestants, who are so frenetically excited and willing to kiss the cadaverous Bob, (do they give them some sort of illegal cocktail?) will win that smaltzy gift of a new dinette set and a trip to Canada. I have begun to bid competitively, and shout out, “No you idiot!” I love the way the contestants hug one another and cheer each other on. It’s very sad really, now that I put it into words. But I watch it nonetheless. I find it oddly calming, though I’m sure it’s only a passing phase, a mere Bandaid to my malaise. I’m very ADD.

One day I missed the show when one of those pesky business calls involving work interrupted my regular schedule, and discovered, it’s almost unbelievable, a parody of the show on “Mad TV.” In the skit, an elderly woman told Bob that with his tan skin and white hair, he almost looked like a negative. I watched it anyway—an unsatisfactory fix for my new daily habit, like methadone for heroine. I want the pure stuff!

During this summer’s intense heat wave, the non-ending, but poorly paying work, the endless pressure of debt, elderly animals, and the encroachment of age, I’ve chosen to read Ray Bradbury’s, “The October Country,” a collection of short stories that make you want to slit your throat, (or eerily someone else’s), except for the fact that his descriptions make the prospect of death even more horrifying than his depictions of deplorable life in this banal existence. The writing is incredible. I don’t recommend it!

So for some reason, as I muddle through the South’s Dog Days, I turn to Bob and his prizes. Oh shut up about the taxes that winners must pay and Barker's publicized chauvinism. I’m escaping for now and crossing my fingers that the next contestant from Wisconsin wins “A BRAND NEW CAAHR!!”