Bonaddiction

I need a sponsor. Sunday evenings, Max babbling to himself in his room, I head downstairs and flick on the tv before doing some prep work for Monday’s classes. Or that is always the plan. Invariably I flip around the empty gestures on every network until I hit VH1 Celebreality. Every week I forget that it’s on, put it out of my head–as if to ease the addictive behavior once I’m back in front of Bonaduce, sick to my stomach that I’m watching but unable to turn away.

Help me. I’m not at all suckered in by the advertising; I don’t believe for a minute that this is unfettered breakdown. I see it as so much self-destructive vanity, strutting rooster-boy preening for the cameras and an imagined public. What I don’t get is why I watch it. Someone give me a clue. Be my sponsor, and help me shake that red-goateed, gravelvoiced, ropy-muscled, narcissistic monkey off my back.

But at least it’s better than Studio 60.