Kings of junk, mothafucka!

Truth be told, as much as I abhor television, I do watch a little of it now and then. (And by “television” I mean something other than college sports, which, in my annual cycle of fanhood, will be replaced by Major League Baseball in April.) Last night I put the finishing touches on the latest revision of a personal essay, so I thought I’d sit back, relax, and see what was on the ol’ boob tube.

Training Day was on HBO. For some reason I always jump into that movie when Ethan Hawke’s character saves a 14-year-old girl from being raped. (I’ve never seen the whole movie, so I have no clue what happens in the very beginning.) Somewhat sadly, I always laugh when one of the rapist junkies says, “You can tax that ass for days!” Tax that ass? Another character says something similar later in the film (maybe Dr. Dre), and I’ve always wondered if the writer who came up with the phrase was a hardcore libertarian conservative who wanted to directly associate taxes with getting force fucked. It didn’t really catch on, though Tea Partiers may want to make another attempt to popularize it.

(On a side note, I had a disturbing dream during the night about being stranded in East LA and pursued by hardcore cholos.)

ANYWAY, after Training Day I made the mistake of staying up past my bedtime to watch “American Pickers” on the History Channel.

Of course, the reason I postponed my beauty sleep was because the show features two Iowans scouring the Midwest for antique collectables. I’d never seen it, and was curious to know what my peeps in Iowa are doing, even if it’s a couple capitalists turning one man’s junk into another’s treasure. Though, from what I saw, the stars of the show, Mike and Frank, act more like profiteering middle men than alchemists, commoditizing the detritus of the American Dream and providing a convenient marketplace for buyers. A journal entry on the Antique Archeology website says, “Antiques are Hot! Its the ultimate way of recycling!” (The unnecessary capital letter and missed punctuation are theirs.) Antiques are cool, but most (unlike the retro Formica table I’d someday like to have) are not truly recycled; they’re turned into useless decoration and memorabilia by enthusiasts.

But whatever. They make money, and that’s all that counts in this country. Plus, “picking” makes for slightly entertaining TV. They joke around, search through people’s junk drawers, and meet some genuine characters. It’s also a sliver educational. Interspersed through the picking scenes are little factoids related to a picked item. For example, did you know rear license plates on vehicles in Japan are permanently bolted on and not removed until the vehicle is put out of service or sold for scrap? I didn’t, but do now (the information glutton is satisfied!).

“American Pickers” made me a little homesick. The down home simplicity, friendliness, and unpretentiousness on display reconnected me to my people and the heartland value structure and lifestyle, which I naturally prefer to the wasteful, empty, uber-American materialism that dominates SoCal. Plus, the segments in the show last night were filmed during autumn. The crops were harvest gold and the foliage of the deciduous trees and bushes were colored fiery oranges, reds, and yellows. Autumn is my season, and this year I’ll get to experience it once again for the first time since 2005; “American Pickers” gave me a sneak preview — more of a tease, frankly — of what’s to come.

“Pickers” isn’t a bad show, but it’s nothing to stay up past my bedtime for.

(Oh — regarding the post title: here’s a hint. Awesome album, by the way.)