Television is a medium that spends its entire existence doing nothing more than trying to grab your eyes and ears by its balls. It is the attention-whore in your living room that won't be ignored. With that said, it should come as no surprise that even the short station identifications, program bumpers and production logos have become these memorable orgies of sounds and visuals. Some of them tried so hard, that they're practically unnerving. This is especially true to young children for whom any strange noise can either be a menacing robot attack or the "NBC Night at the Movies". These short animated idents I grew up watching were so outlandish or eerie that they're fascinating. And apparently, I'm not the only one who reminisces about these things judging by how easy it is to find them on video sites .

Below are some of the most memorable little snippets of promos that etched itself in my mind growing up. Videos pilfered from YouTube. I apologize if some are recognizable only to the Northeast portion of the United States (particularly New York), but I can't exactly relive my childhood in another part of the world.

WGBH - BOSTON


Looks like: Your TV is melting from inside out.
Sounds like: A synthesizer ejaculating.

You'd think they would have retired this when the Moog's novelty wore out. Nope. Even with updated 3-D graphics (see clip), that "Holy-shit-I'm-falling-into-a-black-hole" music remains. Even the author for Wikipedia's "WGBH Idents" entry states "Sometime in the mid or late 1980's this ident was shortened to just the latter half, with its jagged electronic music and eerie animation reported to have scared many younger viewers." Then again, no sources were cited so it can be assumed that this is not a recorded statistic and he or she was simply the same species of "tiny walking vagina" I was.

PBS ("PEOPLE IDENT")


Looks like:March of the Killer Alphabet.
Sounds like:A futuristic doorbell for a haunted house (or half the sound-effect of dying in Donkey Kong).

If I learned anything from Sesame Street, it's that the letter 'P' doesn't have a murderous face. So it seemed somewhat confusing that these scary abstract symbols presented itself at the end of the aforementioned educational show. The impact on my schooling was almost immediately evident. I was forced to undergo counseling when, during routing letter-writing exercises, I drew a picture of the letter 'P' murdering the number '3' with an ampersand.

WPIX SUNDAY MOVIE OPEN/BUMPER


Looks like:A sexually-repressed individual playing with a Spyrograph.
Sounds like:Theme music for a formal dinner party pillow-fight.

To those of you who weren't fortunate enough to witness the insane genius of 70's/80's Channel 11 bumpers and promos, please help yourself to a 2 liter bottle of my pity. Because damn if they weren't more bizarrely entertaining than the shows themselves. If it wasn't spirals of color descending into infinite madness, then it was something equally freakish. Take, for example, the firework explosion extravaganza set to frantic music that segued into the toy commercials. Or the overexcited kids screaming PIX PIX PIX into a phone while someone in the studio played Intellivision (it was some sort of call-in game). Or the "11 ALIVE!" branding that was coffee and cocaine rolled into two simple words (complete with epileptic rainbow effects). Channel 11 was always the scary clown on my dial.

CBS "PAINT CAN" SATURDAY MORNING BUMPERS

Looks like:Stream of consciousness vomiting on your face.
Sounds like: Er... a cat strapped to a ceiling fan?

Even at the age of ten, I knew what I was watching right before the commercials during Pee Wee's Playhouse was indescribably stupid. And I do mean "indescribably". I just watched it five times and still can't come up with anything coherent that can put that hodge-podge of colors and shapes into words. (I liked to think I was above "cats strapped to ceiling fan" and "vomit", but that was literally the best I could come up with.) It was like being lowered into the pits of a hell that was run by backwards-talking beatniks. That... "cone-thing"... was the subject of many nightmares. Not the "wake-up-gasping" type of nightmares, but more like a terribly annoying type of nightmare where you want to wake up as soon as possible so you can get to work suing CBS for "Defamation of Imagination".

SCREEN GEMS


Looks like: So many things! I'm going with "a hurricane forming over a puddle of urine."
Sounds like: A shorter, happier version of "Taps" for the electronic age... almost.

This innocent-looking little logo comes at you with a haunting melody and a somewhat curious looking logo. At first glance it looks like an "S" (if you cross your eyes a bit), but as sure as "P's" don't have faces, "S's" don't look like lawnmower blades. And it's that odd, indecipherable symbol that forms over that bittersweet death march that have many people nervously wondering if it's a production company or an evil organized cult brainwashing citizens with "Gidget" reruns.

CBS SPECIAL PRESENTATION


Looks like:Um, the word "Special" spinning around. Duh!
Sounds like:A drumline falling down a flight of stairs.

We didn't have those fancy, three-dimensional video games when I was young. If you wanted to experience first-person, virtual reality in the old days, you'd stick your face against TV right before "The Charlie Brown Christmas Special" came on. "Whee! I'm flying through a cosmic dictionary!" GET OFF MY LAWN!

Now this is usually the part of my post where I summarize the words I had done said. But after realizing I had spent eight paragraphs of text to talk about a combined about of less than sixty seconds of television, I suddenly feel the blunt force of shame. 32 years on this planet and my life experience has been boiled down to a bunch of stupid animated logos. I should really turn off this computer and read a book. And that's "One to Grow On".

...uggh!

Posted by DaveMMR at 2:44 PM | Permalink | Comments

"Oooh yeah baby, rub me with that quarter. You like that you little freak? I'm going Pick 3 numbers, Straight all over your Box. Ooh baby, you're so hot I'm going to end up doing a Quick Pick."

No... that is not what I mean when I use the phrase "Lotto Whores". I'm using the word "whores" as a verb as defined to mean "to pursue a faithless, unworthy, or idolatrous desire". And while I've never been one to stop others from pursuing some stupid unworthy desires (as it is my main source of entertainment in this life), I do take umbrage when it's keeping me from getting to work on time.

So here's the story: I walked up to the gas station cashier to pay for some gas and a granola bar. The only person in front of me was a sweet little old lady. As I never learn from my experiences in life - EVER - I figured she'd be done in one or two minutes. Nope. She apparently came in armed with a laundry list of numbers she wanted to play "50/50*". A few minutes went by and I figured it had to end soon. Nope. She went for a good five minutes pronouncing each individual number slowly. "Are you reciting the phone book, bitch?!" Finally, after an agonizing seven or eight minutes of listening to the sounds of random integers while standing around with a sad little breakfast treat in my hand, she had finally rattled off her last number. "Thank God she's finally done", I had thought to myself before I caught that terrifying glimpse of her producing winning scratch-offs. Fuck. Me!

*For those of you not in the know about state sponsored gambling junkets, a "50/50" bet is 50 cents "straight", meaning the numbers you spew out come out in order and 50 cents "box", meaning the numbers can appear in any damned order.

Buying lottery tickets is like playing Blackjack at any average casino, except the dealer uses a standard deck while you're only dealt "Old Maid" cards. Try to wrap your head around the odds of winning the average state lottery game. The quantity of possible combinations is a number so large, just reciting it here will mess up the layout of my site. Granted, the old lady was playing the "Pick 3", which has much better odds. But still, mathematically speaking, she's spending a thousand dollars for every few hundred dollars she's winning. If you were to measure the amount of money lost in Werther's Originals and Luden's Cough Drops, it's unimaginably tragic.

I'm going to digress for a second and share something with you I found on the FAQ section of the official New York State Lottery website.

Can you give me the winning numbers for the next drawing?
No. Each drawing is a completely random live occurrence.

I'm going to assume someone really asked that question because it completely fits the mindset of the "get rich quick" moron that thinks the only thing he or she has to do in order to become a millionaire is ask someone nicely to compromise a random, state-sponsored drawing. Conversely, it could have been a "joke" taken seriously. I remember all those people who came into the deli I worked at when I was younger and, instead of just asking for a lottery ticket, would ask specifically for "the winning ticket [chuckle]." Hahahashut the fuck up.

As I said, when I'm running late for work, playing second fiddle to someone's gambling addiction really breaks my shit.

But here's the real reason I'm writing this. As a firm believer in irony, I will win the lottery shortly after decrying it on a public platform. I will then buy a large house and recreate the set of Card Sharks in my basement, all the while telling everyone that I was full of shit on the day I wrote this blog entry. Soon thereafter, I will then lose my entire fortune after some lucky asshole comes into my basement and wins big on the "Money Cards" bonus round. I will then return to my former, bitter self. But by then, it'll be too late to regain any credibility. I'll then become the old shlub holding up some businessman from a meeting or some mailman from his appointed rounds because I need to buy 100 different Pick 3 number combinations one at a time. You have my permission to beat me senseless if that comes true.

Posted by DaveMMR at 6:53 PM | Permalink | Comments

I spoke to my doctor the other day. I asked him if there was a way to end the embarrassment associated with unexpected flatulence. He turned me on to a new and promising medical procedure. Basically, they implant a sound chip in your rectum that emits a pleasant musical tune every time you break wind. So say I'm in an elevator and I bend or stretch the wrong way after a big lunch. Normally, you'd hear the unmistakable sound of air escaping a tight enclosure (or simply, a fart). With the new chip firmly embedded in my rear portal, you'd instead here a pleasant polyphonic melody. "Oh, my cell phone is ringing!", I can say aloud and start an imaginary conversation hoping no one notices that my cell phone smells like rotten eggs and feet.

The best part: it's fully programmable! So one day I can have "La Cucarocha" blasting out of my ass and the next day it can be the theme from "Mr. Belvedere". "Wesley, are you talking shit behind my back?" Arf! Arf!

But that's only the beginning. My ass can be the focal point of my entire entertainment system. Who needs a stereo? Just shove some broccoli down my throat and get ready for a little impromptu "Dance Fever" right in the middle of my odoriferous living room. My ass hasn't been this entertaining since that time I drunkenly stumbled into the meat-packing district.

The only obstacle now is waiting to see if my insurance will cover it. My fingers are crossed and my ass cheeks are clenched. I'll keep you posted.

Posted by DaveMMR at 12:38 PM | Permalink | Comments