EAT 'EM UP, YUM YUM

         Pam and I are in this Elvira Madigan shot; I'd like to say we are on a beach running toward each other but I haven't been on a beach in over ten years, though in my dream I couldn't see any grass. Running through sand is very tiring; I am losing my breath. My pants do not fall down, unlike the famous Pat Paulsen spoof of God-knows-what-year, and I am drawing closer to Nirvana when, like a clap of thunder, he announces himself:

"HOW TALL WAS KING KONG?"

         I begin to parrot, "King Kong was three feet six" but before I can get the entire phrase out, I realize I am awake in terror. I LEFT THE TAPE IN THE VCR. It's Thursday afternoon; I knew a satisfying nap was too good to be true, and now in panic I run to the black box in the living room. It is still on. I push the button to eject. I hear the machine speak,

WHIRRRRRR CHUNKA CHUNKA, CLICK

but only the front end of the tape pops out. I grab it and pull. Some force inside the box pulls the other way. We engage in a tug-of-war, I trying to free O'Toole and company from the malevolent force while the machine, having feasted on one leg, wants the entire tape. There is not enough cartridge exposed to give me leverage without breaking something. I let go; the machine emits a burp of satisfaction.

         "There's a book here somewhere on what to do," I think to myself. I run to the bookcase that holds the cookbooks and find two paperbacks on first aid for dogs, a 'Helpful Hints For Housewives' written originally in 1950 and in its thirtieth printing, and a dog-eared copy of How To Fix Almost Anything. Thumbing through this volume and looking at its illustrations, I realize it dates from before Mr. Black met Mrs. Decker and shacked up with her. I retreat to the pet handbook. It emphasizes proper diagnosis.

         Let me see; I watched this tape on Tuesday night. It must have been good because I don't remember falling asleep while it was on, but I do recall my weariness when it ended. I remember hitting the rewind button on the machine itself. I have to do that because the remote control threw a hissy-fit and walked off one day in a snit and has not returned. Then I guess I fell asleep.

         Wednesday I spent rehearsing a vaudeville act with Pam at her house. We are to emulate that groovy couple of 1968. I am to be the one with the mustache since it will take Pam too long to grow her own; I will also be the straight man and butt of the jokes. She has the part of the dead pan, longhair hippie chick, who goes on to be a famous movie star, down pat. Now if we can just harmonize our singing voices.

         When we were not rehearsing, she was buying ice cream for a party she was throwing the next day. I am not allowed to attend. Pam fears I shall give away our surprise act. She has been telling people I am her publisher, editor or literary agent, the choice being dependent on how her spirit moves her. So I drove home, sat in the heat in front of my monitor all day until lassitude overcame me and I succumbed, only to be awakened from my Elvira Madigan daydream.

         I now come to the conclusion that I never turned off the rewind function, and this VCR, a pre-Lewinsky model, is not exactly state-of-the-art, as they used to like to say in Techie World. To succeed at saving my tape, I need other tactics. I grab my newspaper and sit down on the couch. I pretend to be engrossed in our plunging stock market. Stealthily I roll off the sofa and do a US Army approved low crawl across the floor. I reach up and grab the tape that is exposed and give it a yank.

WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

         No dice! The fiend won't let go. I slunk off, tail between my legs, defeated and humbled. At least this is my own tape. My only embarrassment will be telling a repairman. I don't have to let the rental house know that I have lost their prize possession. That happened when my first VCR ate a mint copy of "Island of Lost Souls." That act was incomprehensible to me; I couldn't believe anyone could chew scenery more thoroughly than Charles Laughton did, but I was wrong. Losing that film led to the purchase of this model manufactured by a firm that disappeared in the Asian financial meltdown of 1997.

         Even the idea of approaching the technician is unpleasant. I will have to paste on my best grin when he tells me, “Gosh, haven’t seen one of these since the days of Gennifer Flowers.” I am sure he has a minimum charge just for looking at the innards, and that charge probably exceeds the cost of a new machine that beckons at Walmart thirteen miles away.

         Yet if I buy a new VCR I will have to explain to one and all why I did not buy a DVD player, that latest marvel of modern electronics. I will strike Pam from that list of those wanting an answer; she knows me well enough by now that she will only think the question. The others, all three people who might visit this house and the dog and cat who have been reading the specs when they surf on-line, will take me to task.

         T-R-O-G-L-O-D-Y-T-E, that is my middle name. If they get abusive, I will look over at my paper bag full of taped music. The CD player in my new car rendered the tapes obsolete. Now as I travel I listen to my two CD inventory. I am like the man, was it General Grant, who knew two songs: one is by Edith Piaf and the other is not. Since my video collection reflects the theory that the last film worth owning was made in 1979, I would not want to hold my breath waiting for these gems to be put on DVD.

         Come to think of it, maybe I am better off doing nothing with the machine that will not disgorge the tape. Maybe I should not acquire new equipment. New electronics will only cause aggravation. Slim left yesterday, so my chances of hooking anything up successfully are smaller than those of the moth the cat is now torturing.

         I took a break just now and plopped myself down on the divan and glanced at the offending machine and the poor tape that hangs part way out of its mouth. I stared at my pile of videos. Gradually they began to play through my mind. I began to mouth aloud the dialogue of Lorre getting angry with Greenstreet in “The Mask of Dimitrios.” I got up and began to act the scene out, playing both parts, and with a wonderful German accent for Lorre. The next time Pam or another visitor comes and wants to watch a movie, I shall pretend to pop one into my non-working machine and go into my act.

         “But David, that’s not the film, that’s you playing Bette Davis and Claude Rains. I like the wigs but?”

         “Pam? HOW TALL WAS KING KONG?”

Valatie June 21, 2002