TV used to be so simple for me. I had a very narrow scope of what I would want to watch. If it involved a person eating an inhumanly large amount of food in a single sitting, I was in. If it was a show about modeling, models, how to model, how to dress a model, or any combination of the above, I had no interest.
My scripted preferences were even more black and white. I wanted a show with a bit of wit, something that could make me laugh. I had no interest in anything that involved rotting corpses or investigators figuring out that the victim of the week was murdered by that one incredibly shady looking individual that the camera zoomed in on during the first five minutes of the episode. If there was even a chance that a person was going to be thrown into a room with an angry cop or be found in a freezer later, I was out of there faster than David Caruso could utter some inane catchphrase over a decaying cadaver.
That’s why my Memorial Day has been a confusing time for me. While everyone else in the world was honoring their fallen comrades or eating a hot dog, I was embroiled in the midst of a “Bones” marathon the likes of which the world has never seen.
It all began this morning. I was in the mood for some television, but nothing was on. For a bit, I watched the morning news. A holiday newscast is always an adventure. It seems that the station grabs the first person they see and throws them in front of the camera. They don’t waste time on making sure the teleprompter is correct. They just turn on the cameras and get started.
The entertainment had finally dissipated after listening to a woman stammer through a story about the governor of some state (I wasn’t fully paying attention to the story, distracted by the stock footage of a man walking down the street that did not, in any way, relate to the story). You can only laugh at a person trying to report a robbery for so long before it gets a bit old.
Joining me on the couch, my wife chimed in.
“You should give ‘Bones’ a shot. I’m not sure what you would think.”
Now, I knew exactly what I would think. A show that revolves around a forensic pathologist looking at the remains of a person and determining that they were, indeed, murdered seemed stupid. However, I am always happy to give something new a shot. I turned on Netflix and, before I knew it, I was watching a person dump flesh-eating bugs onto a burn victim to clean off the bones.
I watched episode after episode and, for some reason, I couldn’t stop. I found myself fully entranced in the world of Temperance Brennan and her FBI cohort, Seeley Booth. In fact, I didn’t even stop to question the likelihood that a person named Temperance and a person named Seeley would meet, much less work together. I was busy hoping they find the weapon from a seven-year-old murder or figure out just why that person’s sternum was broken in TWO places.
Every second I watched this, though, I couldn’t help but wonder what was happening.
There was no reason for me to enjoy this show. I am not a fan of murder or anything murder related. I don’t enjoy seeing people dissect body parts, alive or dead. I don’t enjoy procedural crime shows.
This show was every single thing I hate.
Yet there I was, fully immersed in a festival of murder victims. I tried to blame the Deschanel charm that Emily Deschanel brought to the character of Temperance. This charm had convinced me to view many of sister Zooey’s projects, so this might be it. Of course Zooey has never tried to get me to look at a skull fragment that was found on a man’s jacket either. It couldn’t be that.
Perhaps I had developed a taste for staged murders. This seemed unlikely as the thought of encountering a person’s blood makes me want to leave a room as quickly as possible. Even this fake blood was pretty gross.
The only answer I could arrive at is my tastes might be changing. I have heard that, as a person ages, they might find themselves liking different things. This might be the first step. I would like to give myself a standing ovation for growing up, even if it is in an area as small as TV. I’m sure my tastes will continue to change as I continue to age.
If they ever reach the point where modeling shows are okay with me, though, just shoot me. At that point, I have matured too far.