Nick at Nite Marathons are Responsible for My Life
the commune's Kitty Martel could not be reached for comment 

Monday, Nov. 26, 2001
At every turn someone is yelling at me, “Take responsibility for your life!” Or something clever like, “If you’re looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror.” That’s very fine if you’re a rock song writer or something, Mr. Smart Guy, but what about Nick At Nite? No, nobody ever blames Nick At Nite.

I, for one, put the blame squarely on Nick At Nite. It’s quite obvious their weekly marathons of old classic TV shows are blatant attempts to get me to sit and stay tuned for the entire weekend.

When I was younger, I used to do things. I would go out on the weekends with boys, I would visit places, I would often leave the house in doing so. I had activities to do. One time I read a book. It was more of a magazine, I guess, but I read it. From front to back, even the ad on the last page. No kidding. I read the whole damned thing. Not anymore.

I was married for a time. My husband was one of those “active” people I met back when I left the house a lot. I married him, we got jobs, bought a house, and then got cable. And down the pooper it all went, let me tell you. The first marathon I remember was All in the Family, and I don’t know about you, but when Archie Bunker talks, I listen. Just like that commercial says, remember that? Ha ha.

That was my first, but not my last. Some of them blur together, but I’m pretty sure it was a Mork & Mindy marathon when my husband was yelling and screaming something about potatoes and couches and whatever and then he disappeared. Some lawyer brought me something to sign sometime later and I think it means we’re divorced, all I know is nobody’s sat in his spot on the couch in quite a while. And I always thought he liked Mork & Mindy.

After a while, one of my friends—alright, the cable guy—set me up on a blind date with some guy named Murdock. No, wait, Murdock was the name of the guy on The A-Team, and that’s what I was watching that weekend when I was supposed to go out with him. Anyway, every once in a while I’ve answered a personal ad or two but they always want to get together on the weekend. Or at night, which is when Nick At Nite starts, duh—it’s called Nick At Nite, stupid!

And I sure don’t deliver pizzas like I used to. On the days I actually show up to work I always end up making a delivery to some house with cable. And everybody there’s watching Nick At Nite! Or maybe they aren’t, but while they aren’t looking they usually don’t hear me turn on the TV with the volume low and watch for a little while. A lot of times Taxi will be on, that’s pretty weird, I think. And after a while they ask what I’m doing there, didn’t they pay me and all, and I have to go. I hurry home so I can watch the rest of Taxi on my own TV.

I ask you now, how is any of this my fault? I didn’t start a cable channel with America’s most beloved sitcoms and action dramas airing all night. I didn’t choose to run those adored shows all weekend from hour to hour. I’m perfectly willing to accept responsibility for any mistake on my part, but surely I’m only a human being, I’m not a god. I have the same weaknesses as anybody—

Ooo. Can’t talk. The Wonder Years is starting!