n o w p l a y i n g - s c r i p t b i n - f a n c l u b - s t u d i o

make love to the camera



June 07, 2004 - 3:38 pm

At This Point in the Afternoon, I Usually Either Go Running or Eat an Entire Pizza

Despite knowing better, I've always enjoyed 'The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.' Sure, it was never brilliant, or poignant, or even great, but it had it's moments and I consider it extremely watchable in reruns. You knew who the characters were, and the writers were good at exploiting them for decent laughs. I know it's a show that would probably not make any critics all time Top, say, 25 list, but I got a kick out if it. It's a show I wouldn't ever go out of my way to watch, but I don't mind when I catch it.

And there's no denying Will Smith's irrepressible charm. In one particular scene I remember, he was sitting side by side with a girl on a couch. Suddenly, he swings his left leg up and over her head and onto the cushion, saying "Get back, girl!" or something similarly sassy. She, naturally, is both bewildered and impressed. I'm waiting for the day I can work the move into my proposal.

One thing, however, has always bothered me about the show, and that thing is the theme song.

A short refresher for those who aren't familiar with the legend of The Prince that is Fresh.

West Philadelphia is where he was born and raised, and on the playground is where he spent most of his days. One afternoon, he was shooting b-ball outside of the school. A group of ruffians who were up to no good started making trouble in his neighborhood. The details of the ensuing fight are unclear, but we do know that Will's mother used that as the excuse to foist him off on the rich relatives in Bel-Air California.

Now, here's the part that bothers me. We rejoin Will in California, where he procures a taxi cab to go meet his relations. Let us dissect this quote from the piece:

"I whistled for a cab, and when it came near / the license plate said 'Fresh' and it had dice on the mirror / I thought, if anything, that this cab was rare / but I thought "Naw, forget it. Yo, homes! To Bel-Air!"

Will arrives at his cousin's palacial manse, intimates that his transportation was characterized by a less than pleasant odor, and never mentions the cab again.

I am more than irked. I have always felt that the cab was leading to something. It certainly seems that way, as four lines are devoted to the cab! The detailed description! The mention that it was rare! The fact that Will experiences some sort of feeling about the cab, dismisses it, and goes on his way...and yet the cab gets no satisfying resolution.

The cabbie doesn't turn out to be another relative. The cabbie doesn't flip out and make a run for Tijuana, Will in tow. We are supposed to believe that this is merely a rare, stinky cab, and nothing more.

With the series being long over, we are forced to relegate the mystery to the category of one of life's great, unanswered questions.

So. I've got the week off from work, I've got the roommate across the country in Omaha, and, if my lengthy and pointless 'Fresh Prince' digression hasn't convined you of such already, I've got the crazy old man thing in full effect here.

I've built a maze out of newspaper in my apartment, atop which my 40 dogs (elderly 'smellhounds,' naturally) are free to meander. I spend my days organizing my medication, putting it away, and taking it out and organizing it again by color, size and potency. I field calls from slick voiced hucksters telling me that my Medicare card is on the way, and all they need is my credit card number for verification.

Would that it were so, if only for the interesting small talk I'd have with new visitors to an apartment like that. What is disturbingly so, however, is that I've been talking to myself.

I don't know if it's the fact that with Jonny back in his home state, I'm all alone here and have no one to talk to and just want to hear a voice, or what. All I know is that if I have a thought, or am thinking of an old conversation, or potential conversation, or just what passes for me as a clever phrase, I am fucking speaking it aloud.

Am I going insane?

Good God. I just did it, as I wrote "Am I going insane?" I said it, with feeling and conviction, just to see what it would sound like out loud.

Do I just have a need to run my mouth? I am going to struggle to not make this a habit. I don't need to be the prematurely delusional 28 year old muttering to himself as he walks down the street.

Speaking of being 28...this Friday the 11th, I won't be.

Yes, that day kicks off the final year of my twenties. I've got 369 days til I'm old enough to not be trusted by anyone younger.

This year, I won't have the insane, hide your daughters, all out debauched bacchanalia I envision for next year. I'm thinking that, rather than do the good old 'hey, let's all meet at a bar and pay far too much for beverages' I'm going to have some people over.

And barbecue for them.

All the while muttering to myself about the Fresh Prince, natch.

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