Mom loves the Circus Freakshow Channel, on cable TV. It’s always on in the living room, and I’m staying in her living room, so I’ve been forced to endure something called Dr Pimple Popper, and a show about dwarfs in physical contests, and a show about massively overweight people talking endlessly about being massively overweight, and a show about people with boils and lesions, and here’s someone with literally a hole in his head where you’d expect an eyeball.
CRANKY OLD MAN #128
APRIL 10, 2022
That’s entertainment, almost whenever Mom watches TV, and she watches TV even while she’s reading her Bible.
I’ve slowly realized that the Circus Freakshow Channel…
Mom loves the Circus Freakshow Channel, on cable TV. It’s always on in the living room, and I’m staying in her living room, so I’ve been forced to endure something called Dr Pimple Popper, and a show about dwarfs in physical contests, and a show about massively overweight people talking endlessly about being massively overweight, and a show about people with boils and lesions, and here’s someone with literally a hole in his head where you’d expect an eyeball.
CRANKY OLD MAN #128
APRIL 10, 2022
That’s entertainment, almost whenever Mom watches TV, and she watches TV even while she’s reading her Bible.
I’ve slowly realized that the Circus Freakshow Channel is actually TLC, which at one time, ironically, was The Learning Channel, but now it’s just horrors to gawk at, and Mom loves to gawk.
She watches this with the volume set to absolute max, but after several days of my complaining about it, she has *sometimes *muted it and watched with subtitles, which is the kindest thing she’s done for me in many years. Still, even muted, if there’s a TV on in a room you’re going to glance at it once in a while, and every time I glance I’m repulsed.
Maybe you watch TLC in the privacy of your own domicile, and if so I won’t kink-shame you. Everyone scratches their ass and then sniffs their fingers, so you go right ahead.
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One evening, we were having a fairly fine time together, Mom and me. Katrina was home from work, but usually she just says howdy and chats for a few minutes before fading into her bedroom, so it was just Mom and me in the living room. She was watching some disgusting show on the Circus Channel, but thankfully it was muted.
Our re- re- and re-recurring topics of conversation that night were ① please come to church, especially because it’s almost Easter, ② is your cat peeing and pooping regularly?, ③ where did you sleep and eat on your long drive to Seattle?, ④ whatever sickening show was on TV at the moment, and ⑤ the perennial champ, why don’t you recline in the recliner?
Not sure what Mom’s ordinary routine is, but while I’ve been there, she’s spent virtually all of her awake time in the living room, in her recliner, six feet from the recliner that I sit in. She reclines in it half a dozen times every hour, I’d guess. She sits, and reclines, and then maybe a few minutes (or seconds) later she’ll want something, so she’ll un-recline. The chair mechanically groans, Mom gets up, slowly fetches whatever, and then she’ll walk back, sit down, groan and recline again.
For the heck of it I counted last night; she reclined 22 times, just while I was in the living room, which was perhaps four hours, before I left in a furious huff and spent the night in my car again. It’s the only place I can sleep.
She wants me to recline in my recliner. Oh, how she wants me to recline. I’ve been staying here for a week, and she’s asked approximately infinite times in myriad different ways — • “You should recline the chair.” • “Why don’t you recline the chair?” • “You’ll get a sore neck if you sleep in the recliner without reclining.” • “Do you know how to recline the chair?” • “It’s very nice reclining the chair. You should try it…” • And my favorite, “I watched you sleeping in your chair for half an hour last night, and you looked so uncomfortable without the chair being reclined.”
On this particular night, the first time she said I should recline, I said “No, I’m not going to recline.”
The second time she said it, ten minutes later, I said, “Can we stop talking about reclining already? I’m not reclining.”
The third and fourth times she mentioned it, I ignored her.
The fifth time, twenty minutes later when she said, “I wish you’d recline in the chair,” I shouted “No!”
Half an hour after that, when she said, “You could recline just a little, to get your feet up off the floor,” I kinda sorta lost it.
“There’s a war in Ukraine and I’m worried about my cat and about finding a room, and it’s hard to imagine anything *less *important than whether I recline in this recliner. It should matter to no-one but me. It’s my decision, not yours, and I am *not *reclining, and I am very emphatically *not *talking any more about reclining.”
“OK,” is all she said, with the sweet look she always wears on her face when I lose my temper at her. It’s a look that means, she’s won.
“No, it’s actually not OK. Learn some manners, Mom.” I was very nearly yelling, but I stupidly continued: “It’s amazingly rude of you to keep telling me to recline the chair when I’ve said so many damned times that I am *not *reclining the chair — not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever — so knock it off. We are done talking about reclining the chair.”
“OK,” she said, still with the sweet look of utter innocence, as if she’s the Virgin Mary before being raped by God.
It’s not OK and it’s not over, of course. Same as when I was 17 and couldn’t wait to be 18 and move out, I know again, it won’t be over until I leave this house for a place of my own.
And even then it won’t be over. It’ll be the same every time I see her. What I want — desperately — is simply to *choose *when and where I see her, instead of having her with me in the living room whenever I’m in the living room.
No, I didn’t handle it well. Should’ve said nothing but “Excuse me, I’m going to my car,” and then gone to my car. But I didn’t, so we argued, and I hate it.
And if she asks me again to recline in the chair, I’m sure I’ll handle it even worse. My reply will finally be: “Fuck off, Mom.”
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On Thursday I took the day off from hovel-hunting, and went to see some of Seattle. Left the car behind, which I’m hoping to do more and more often, and rode the train to the U District, which was my home once upon a time, and then to the Pike Place Market.
The University District, at least what I saw strolling around for an hour, seems about what I’d remembered. Crowds of college kids, lots of tiny ethnic restaurants, a big book store, and a few movie theaters. The Neptune, where I saw hundreds of old movies, no longer shows films at all, but at least it’s still there and open for business. Likewise, the University Theater is no longer about movies, but still there. What was once an art-house multiplex now screens only the latest hits, so I’ll never be there again. My favorite sub shop has become a vacant lot. I couldn’t find the boarding house I’d lived in, 30+ years back.
All this was sorta the same old U District though, and that was nice.
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The Pike Place Market has always been a great place for fresh fish and local produce, with a huge assortment of artisan shops and food purveyors, all wrapped in a garish pastiche of high prices and showmanship. The fakery has encroached further — now there’s a multi-story Target store, not quite inside the Market but dominating the block, and a Hard Rock Café, where a dozen tourists and college kids sat on the sidewalk eating and gawking and mistakenly thinking they were at the Pike Place Market.
Thought I’d buy some vegetables and bring them home to Katrina and Mom, but all the veggies were clearly corporate — plastic-wrapped, UPC-affixed, and pricier than Safeway, so I bought nothing.
Seattle is mostly gone, and I’m adrift where it used to be.
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Mom: “See the skin hanging loose from that woman? She used to be fat, but lost a lot of weight and now she has loose flaps of skin.”
On TV, the Circus never ends.
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More and more, I sleep in the car. Every evening, there’s ordinary conversation with Katrina, who then turns in early. There’s conversation with Mom, even enjoyable conversation, and then when I’m ready to turn in, I say so, but she stays.
She says “Good night, Doug,” but never leaves the living room, continues watching the Circus shows on TV, continues chatting with me about whatever topic occurs to her, continues reading the newspaper with crinkly page-turning sounds that keep me from sleeping.
I always think she’s done talking and making noise, and indeed, sometimes there’s 10 or 15 minutes of blessed silence, but then she’ll awaken me again. When it’s happened half a dozen times, I say, “Good night again, I’m going to sleep in my car.”
At that, Mom says, “Good night again,” but stays in her chair watching TV and reading the paper. I sleep in the car for a few hours, then dart inside to pee, and when I do, Mom is still in her recliner, sometimes asleep but more often watching TV and reading the newspaper, or reading the Bible if she’s finished with the Seattle Times.
I don’t know how much of this is *her *wackiness, and how much of this is *my *wackiness. Maybe I ought to just stay in the car and skip the living room entirely.
What I know with certainty and need to explain to you, dear reader, is that she’s *not *suffering from dementia. Mom is 90-something, yes, but she’s been this way at least since I moved out of the house in the 1970s.
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And now, my recent internet history, with sadly no porn at the library…
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Life advice from NYC chess hustlers
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What does this 17th-century painting smell like?
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Texas woman charged with murder for ‘self-induced abortion’ “
This arrest is inhumane. We are demanding the immediate release of Lizelle Herrera.” said Rockie Gonzalez, founder and board chair of Frontera Fund. “What is alleged is that she was in the hospital and had a miscarriage and divulged some information to hospital staff, who then reported her to the police.”
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The 8-hour East Village standoff against a homeless-encampment sweep
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Four more Starbucks stores unionize, sending shivers to board rooms
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NYC cuts off Wells Fargo from new bank contracts following discrimination claims
I like the thought, but isn’t it obvious that no city, county, or state government should be doing business with *any *bank that’s not headquartered in that city, county, or state?
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What it means that an incel avoided prison for a terror hoax
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Ukraine’s wheat harvest, which feeds the world, can’t leave the country
“There is nothing else to do but give the grain away to the army or as humanitarian aid. Ukraine, thankfully, will not starve,” he said. “But if we are talking about global food security, well, that is already a fragile system. Climate change, supply chain chaos, and now this war — in six months’ time, poor people will starve to death. I don’t think the world understands that yet.”
This is a crazy, unjust attack:Pink Floyd re-forms to support Ukraine
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Kareem Abdul-Jabbar wrote an episode of Veronica Mars.
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Amtrak is streaming an empty railroad on Twitch to beef with freight rail companies
By law, Amtrak’s passenger trains also have priority over freight traffic. But in practice this doesn’t happen, and freight traffic is the leading source of delays on Amtrak trains outside the Northeast Corridor, one of the only places Amtrak retains ownership of tracks (along with sections owned by state governments that also operate commuter rails). This is one of the key reasons rail travel in America is unreliable and underutilized.
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In California, you can borrow state park passes from your local library.
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One-word newscast, because it’s the same news every time… • climate • cops • cops • cops • cops • cops • Republicans • Republicans • Trump
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Me: “Good night, Mom. I’m falling asleep now.”
Mom: “I think Mayim Bialik is doing just fine as host of Jeopardy.”
Me: “I’m sure she is.”
Mom: “Do you watch Jeopardy?”
Me: “No, I don’t, and I’m going to sleep now.”
Mom: “You don’t watch anything, because you don’t have a TV.”
Me: (aggressively closing my eyes, but saying nothing) I answered a question, once, by saying that I don’t have a TV, and now she tells me I don’t have a TV whenever she’s watching TV.
…several minutes later…
Mom: “Do you remember Lila Shields, who used to be Lila Murray?”
Me: “Yes.” Actually I don’t remember Lila Shields-Murray, but I remember Mom talking about her so many times, I’m hoping that saying ‘yes’ will prevent a re-relling of the Lila Shields-Murray story.
Mom then narrates a brief documentary on the life and times of Lila Shields, who used to be Lila Murray.
…several minutes later…
Mom: “Do you know who Anna Ling is?”
Me: No reply, but yeah, I know who Anna Ling is, and I know that whether I answer yes, no, or don’t answer, Mom will explain who Anna Ling is. Mom then explains who Anna Ling is.
Mom: “Did you spend a night in Sheridan, Wyoming?”
Me: “Yes,” but actually, no. During the drive, I spent a night in Wyoming, but not in the town of Sheridan. Don’t know where she got the Sheridan misconception, but I’ve already *twice *explained that I didn’t sleep or even stop in Sheridan, Wyoming. As a kindness to Mom, this time I let it be Sheridan.
…several minutes later…
Mom checks the messages on her phone, always via speakerphone, so every beep and every word can be heard by me.
There are no new messages, so she replays several old messages and texts.
Me: “I’m trying to sleep.”
Mom: “I’m just checking my messages.”
Me: “Yes, obviously, but I’m trying to sleep. Could you check your messages in your room?”
Mom: “I’ll only be a minute.” (plays next message)
Me: “OK, well, I’ll be sleeping in my car,” and I zip up my jacket and step outside.
…several hours later…
I return to the house to pee. Mom is still on her recliner, still reclined and under a blanket, now watching the Circus Freakshow Channel on TV at full volume. She’s snoring, but as I walk past her toward the bathroom he says, “Do you watch Darcey & Stacey?”
Me: “No.” I don’t even know what that is.
Mom: “You don’t watch anything, because you don’t have a TV.”
And then, I went down a hallway and into the john to pee, while Mom shouted the premise of Darcey & Stacey. It’s a TV show on the Circus channel.
…and then…
Mom, as I’m headed back to the car: “Will you come to church with me on Easter Sunday?”
Me: “No,” as I close the door and walk back to the peace, quiet, and sanity of sleeping alone in a rusted Chevy.
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I am going to love living in Seattle, I think, when I find a place of my own and I’m no longer living in Mom’s living room.
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The End (two weeks’ worth of death) • Eric Boehlert • Dagny Carlsson • Renny Cushing • Tommy Davis • Francisco González • Estelle Harris • Joan Joyce • John Korty • Richard Lipez • Jimmy Lydon • Patricia MacLachlan • Michelle Materre • CW McCall • Joe Messina • Ted Mooney • Nehemiah Persoff • Mimi Reinhardt • John Roach • Bobby Rydell • June Shagaloff Alexander • Liz Shore • Terry Wallis • Av Westin
4/10/2022 Republished 12/8/2025
Cranky Old Man is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that’s made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. [Comments & conversations invited.](mailto:itsdougholland@gmail.com?subject=Comments for Mostly Words)
*Tip ‘o the hat to *All Hat No Cattle, Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf’s, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate’s Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I’ve stolen without saying thanks.
*Extra special thanks to *Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S., and always Stephanie…