Archive | April 11, 2011

You know that’s right.

I’ve recently discovered the tv show, Psych (five years behind everyone else); and the combination of new comedy fodder and 80 unseen episodes has resulted in a binge fest the likes of which Graceland has never seen. (Fortitude is but a castle in France, my friend.)

I have now seen four years worth, in the space of a week and a half.

Hours of back-to-back eps, until my eyes lolled and the left side of my body ceased to function. Other side effects include singing along to the credits like I’m special needs, crushing on the male lead like a prepubescent teen and twitching in my sleep from withdrawal (like a cat dreaming it’s being chased by a dog).

I’ve been here before.

But a new phenomenon has occurred. I’m now crushing on the show itself, in an exultant love previously reached only by my brother and Bea Arthur. I’ve fallen in love with Psych for its beautiful, sexy and sumptuous movie references. Sigh.

Sumptuous and sexy 80s movie references.

My heart swoons and I feel a heady rush with each obscure, Hughes-filled reference. I blush when it says ‘fear does not exist in this dojo’, toy with my hair at each nostril-flared mention of Judd Nelson and tell myself that only I see that the dude in the werewolf ep is from An American Werewolf in London. But I fear that, not only do others share and compete with this love but, I’m now a stalker of Joanie Loves Chachi proportions.

In my defense, I’m surrounded by movie heathens. It’s a sad day when you’re reduced to deciphering “are you okay, ‘cause you’re sweating pretty profusely?” for a pack of drunks on a Friday night. My pithy cinematic references are words without a home, like Ralph Machhio wandering the streets of LA as the pop-culture hobo he is.

But the pleasure I get from such a show is bitter-sweet; as if the closer someone gets to my funny bone, the more painful the laughter becomes. After the rumble of delight and guffaws pass through, like the astral train in Ghostbusters, the whippet tail of jealously swiftly follows. Truth bomb: that someone else wrote it before I could.

Meaty jealousy.

That and I really want a hot chocolate friend to coolly bump fists with … as I purse my lips and declare, “you know that’s right”.

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