Whether or not your average evening consists of sitting back and watching The Tonight Show, chances are you’ve heard about NBC’s situation.  Since Conan O’Brien has taken over the franchise, I’ve found myself tuning in regularly.  However, my doing so hasn’t been enough to keep his ratings where NBC would like them to be.  But where to point the finger?  Older individuals claim that he’s just too much for them to handle when they’re in bed and wanting a simple chuckle before they doze off.  Others have pointed out how Leno’s show is currently doing horribly, the worst in its time slot, leading very few viewers to tune into Conan.  NBC’s idea (at this moment) is to bump Conan by half an hour and let Leno try to win back his old viewers.  As much as it pains me to say, it’s a solution that might very well fix their problem.

With that said, I’d like to point out that I’ve never found Leno to be entertaining.  I’m not only saying this because I prefer Conan– I gave Leno a legitimate shot.  I find him to be very formulaic.  Also, his back and forth with Kevin Eubanks is excruciating.  I’m talking real, shivering, bamboo shoots shoved up my finger nails type of pain.  And yet, he used to beat out Letterman.

My parents watched Leno for the majority of his run.  It wasn’t an evening ritual of theirs,  but if they had their afternoon coffee a little late, chances are they’d turn it on.  When Conan took over the show, my parents simply upgraded their Netflix plan for more movies.  “He’s just too crazy,” my mother would say.  “I just don’t find him funny.”

I argued with them that Conan penned many episodes of  The Simpsons during its golden age, back when my parents loved it.  “So what?” my father would contest.  “I was laughing at Homer, not at him.”  Needless to say, Conan’s just doesn’t seem to cut it for older generations.

Whether if Conan accepts the new time slot or tries to find another network is still up in the air.  I guess what really bothers me is that he seems like a genuinely nice person.  If I bumped into him at an airport, I’d imagine he’d shake my hand and pose for a photo.  And so when Leno agreed to retire several years ago and let him have the franchise, only to come back and take the time slot, thereby pushing Conan to 12:05AM in the east coast (The Tomorrow Show, anyone?), it’s undoubtedly a dick move, regardless of whom you prefer.

No matter what happens, I’d like us all to remember what’s most important here: my Conan kitten is extraordinarily cute.

One afternoon in ‘93, my mother and I were watching a VHS of My Girl. Back then she had more control over what I watched and as long as it wasn’t a repeat of Little House on the Prairie I would comply. During the movie, Anna Chlumsky and Macaulay Culkin’s characters cut themselves and became blood brother and sister. My mother paused the tape and told me to never(ever) do what we had just witnessed. “Why?” I asked her. “Because you can get AIDS,” she explained. Since there was no mention of a virus, all my eight year-old mind took from her explanation was that if you mix your blood with the blood of another person, you’ll get AIDS.

The following weeks were filled with intrigue and terror. In my history class we had just started learning about the American Revolutionary War. After showing us an old projection of middle-aged men fighting one another in costumes, the teacher asked if anyone had any questions. I raised my hand. “Weren’t any of the soldiers afraid of getting AIDS when they got blood on them?” The teacher, having not expected such a question, responded with, “No, see, they didn’t worry about AIDS back then.” I assumed by her response that she meant the people of the late 1700s weren’t smart enough to figure out why the victorious soldiers that came home covered in their enemy’s blood were dropping dead.

Soon enough, I began fearing for my own safety. I avoided the monkey bars, sharing food with anyone, as well as participating in games of Bloody Knuckles. I tried my very best to avoid physical contact with my peers in fear that one of them might possess a fresh scab that might let out a drop of blood.

I remember a weekend soccer game, where my father and teammates’ parents were rooting me on as I dribbled the ball by the sideline. Someone from the other team had decided that the best way to stop me would be to run directly into me. His forearm went across my mouth and scratched against my front teeth, but he continued after the ball none the wiser. I, on the other hand, came to a complete stop as a look of panic washed over my face. I ran over to my father at the sideline who was surrounded by the rest of my teammates’ parents. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?” he yelled trying to contain himself. “That kid put his arm in my mouth. Am I going to get AIDS?” The other parents stared at my father, silent and confused by what they had just heard. “What the hell are you talking about? Get back in the game!”

It wasn’t until a few months of uneasiness had gone by that my beliefs were corrected by my mother.

“What? No, someone needs to have the virus for you to get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a virus?” I asked angrily.

“I thought you knew!” she yelled back.

“So why in the world would the kids in My Girl have AIDS?”

“I don’t know, I was just trying to teach you to be careful!”

I was playing Blackjack at the Bellagio around two in the morning last week.   Sitting beside me were two Texans and their prostitutes.  The girls claimed to be sisters in their 20s but looked nothing alike and one of them was sporting a cesarean scar.  I didn’t particularly feel like having a conversation with them, but if you’ve been in a casino before you know it’s not entirely up to you.  “So are you a Cubs or Sox fan, Chicago?” I was asked for probably the twelfth time in a fortnight.  Knowing nothing about baseball, I answered dismissively with, “Depends who’s winning.”  The Texans let out an unnecessary, hearty laugh and tugged their women close.

One of them reached into his pocket and looked at the dealer, “Can we smoke at this table?”  The dealer tapped on the sign beside him, “Afraid not, this one’s no smoking.”  “Ah alright,” said the Texan.  He then reached into his other pocket and withdrew a can of chewing tobacco and tucked some black slop into his mouth.  The hooker beside him frowned as she thought of what’s to come that night.  Our eyes met as she collected herself.  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed to her.

An hour in, the Texans had lost most of their money and I had found myself up by several hundred dollars.  As I won a big hand, the Texans, now drunk, approvingly slapped their hands down on the table and hollered over my win.  It was like having my own middle aged, sweaty cheerleaders.  As I pulled in my winnings I noticed the other prostitute was looking at me.  I smiled politely and stacked my chips as I felt her continue to stare.

Minutes later, the Texans stood up and grabbed their girls and wished me a good night.  They began to walk away when the hooker turned back to put her wine glass down on the table.  She leaned in and whispered, “Meet me in the bathroom in ten minutes.”

Before you start wondering silly things, I’ll assure I did not take her up on her offer– and no, not just because I was on a hot streak.  It always amazes me how content people are with prostitution.  They love buying into the idea of Vegas, a city of sins and no consequences in a false reality.

The day before, I was playing across from a man who was on a horrible losing streak.  “My wife is going to kill me,” he told the table.  A moment later, a girl came by and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.  “How are you doing?” she asked.  “Not too great,” he said with a smirk.  “Oh well, you’ll hit it next time.”  The dealer smiled and chimed into their conversation, “Well, your wife doesn’t seem so upset.”  The man and woman laughed.  “That’s not my wife, silly,” he told us.  Everyone at the table started laughing as I sat there somewhat surprised by their reaction.

Frankly, I was a little embarrassed it bothered me as much as it did.  It’s not as if I’m unaware of the belittled sanctity of today’s modern marriage nor does it actually interest me.  I think what I find surprising is their open willingness to sleep with a prostitute.   I mean, who knows what tobacco spitting Texan she was just with?

“Are you comfortable with soft and hardcore pornography?” Melissa, one of my interviewers, asked me in a whisper.  “Since ten years old,” I replied.  She and Sandeep, my other interviewer, started laughing as they exchanged approving nods.  They made it clear from when I first sat down that a sense of humor is important when you edit porn for a living.  It’s one of those professions where you need to keep yourself constantly removed from your work in order to not feel like the scum of society.  Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered interviewing for such a position, but this wasn’t some shady porn site- this was Playboy.  And even though I went into their corporate office thinking they didn’t make hardcore pornography, it turned out they own several companies that do.

Read More >>