My freshman year in college, I met this guy on my dorm floor who was intensely into the Beatles. At that age and at a time when you’re living away from home for the first time and trying to meet new people, I was receptive to meeting this guy because I too had a love for the Beatles. But it quickly became apparent that this guy was…very different.
He literally had thousands of tapes, records, books, magazines, clippings, interviews, videos, trivia, hearsay, bootlegs, fingernail clippings, DNA samples, etc., of everything the Beatles had ever even thought about doing, and then all their individual, post-Beatle (i.e. boring) lives too. EVERYTHING.
The Beatles were all he ever talked about, when he talked, which was infrequently, and his obsession was already far past the “psychotic fan” level. He had no other friends, had never been with a girl (or guy for that matter), and didn’t talk to anyone at all. He never washed his hair, nobody ever saw him take a shower the entire year, he went home (an hour away) every weekend…I think you’re getting the picture. Anyway, I’m getting to a point here, so hang on.
After a couple of times hanging out with this guy (always with my roommate as a buffer, who shared my concerns/fears), my tolerance level of his psychosis/my boredom was met. He would never start a conversation, never offered any insight into anything, was just incredibly passive, annoyingly quiet, and unnervingly…existing. We quickly coined him: “Mr. Excitement.”
When we broke for summer, I was relieved and confident that our paths would surely never cross again. But of course, that first week of sophomore year, I was walking along Bruin Walk (UCLA) minding my own business when suddenly I get a wimpy poke on my shoulder and turned around. There was Mr. Excitement with that corny smile on his face and that, still, unwashed hair.
“Chris, hi, how are you?” he said with that same meek, mildly greasy voice. Now I’m really not a bastard at heart (no, really); I was amiable, and somehow watched in horror from above as I invited him over to my place to hang out later. This was all under the guise of my same roommate, or either of my other additional two roommates being there to deflect the discomfort...I hoped. But when he showed up, all three of my roommates were nowhere to be found. I decided that I would really give him a chance this time; I’d make repeated efforts at getting conversations going, would keep things interesting, and would not allow a lull to be found anywhere.
Within five minutes I was in Hell. Mr. Excitement was so incredibly boring, I was having a hard time staying awake…and it was only 5 PM. We had nothing to talk about, he didn’t want to watch TV, didn’t want a beer…I was dying by the minute. Finally, I decided I would have to go to extremes. After a particularly life-sapping twenty-minute lull, I simply laid down on the couch, stretched out, and closed my eyes. I was going to out-bore Mr. Excitement. He was going to get so bored, that even he couldn’t stand it, and would walk out in disgust.
I lay there for ten minutes totally silent. Twenty. Thirty. Sixty. It was hard to keep my eyes closed for so long and my body still in that deathly silent room. What the hell was he doing? Was he even still here? I hadn’t heard anything the entire time. But no way, I couldn’t stir now; surely he was on the brink of getting up and walking out.
I pushed on. An hour fifteen. An hour and a half. Still no sound. Now I was really getting worried. Maybe I had dozed off without realizing it and he’d walked out… I tried to squint my eyes without giving myself away…but he had been sitting behind me and off to the left, I’d have to turn my head to check for sure. Can’t give up now after so much hard work. I plodded on.
An hour forty-five. Two hours… Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer; I had to get some stimulation in my head. He had to be gone. I opened my eyes and slowly turned my head.
Mr. Excitement was sitting on the chair with both feet on the floor and his hands on his knees…looking directly at me. He was having the time of his life.
I couldn’t do it. He won. Mr. Excitement got the prize as the King of Boredom.
“I got some…stuff to do. You should leave,” I lamely said in defeat.
“Oh, OK.” He looked shocked. Why would I ask him to leave when he was having such a rollicking good time?
He got up and left, I turned on everything in the apartment that made noise: the TV, both stereos, the blender, the hair dryer, the answering machine…my stimulation tank was way too low.
...Did anyone feel exactly like this while watching Survivor last night? I mean, in an episode where the most action was in Shambo/Rambo/Shamwow trying to find an escaped chicken in a tree...I nearly called Mr. Excitement for some stimulation.
Where was the backstabbing? Where was the scheming? Where was the drama?
In fact, the one person who always manages to keep things interesting:
...didn't even bother to show up for the (ooo - invigorating!) bocce ball challenge.
Other spine-tingling challenges CBS considered (lawn bowling, shuffleboard & BINGO!)
Thank god these types of episodes are few and far between...otherwise it would be like eating Chipotle too many days in a row...
What else is there to say about this void of an episode? Foa-Foa wins for the first time ever, Yasmin gets the boot in her high heels, and the immunity challenge is a thrilling test of stacking blocks.
Is it just me? Am I the only one who's a glutton for disturbing controversy? Is it wrong to so tangibly miss the shimmering golden shower taboos of reality TV?
In a word: yes.
Pray for my soul. Or not...Hell is a journey, not a destination...
Until next week,
Probst Beef
Was it really that bad...like that night you will remember every detail of this episode 20 years later...p.s. I thought you guys were going to make out.
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