We're not on tour. Brace yourself for egregious rambling

There are oh so many reasons to be angry with television. What should be a bastion of free or almost free entertainment and information offers infotainment at best and, in the case of Pokemon, has been known to cause actual physical seizures at worst. Damn you TV. Damn you Katie Couric. Damn you GAP commercials. (When the zombie apocalypse comes, I hope to see Audrie Hepburn and Jack Keroauc feasting on the brains of GAP executives. And, since whoever owns GAP owns Old Navy, they'll kill two birds with one stone. Or a lot of old white dudes with rotten teeth and a lust for brains. You know how that saying goes.)

Of course, there are silver linings. Regardless of calls to create an all-Simpsons channel, television usually offers three or four reruns a day, which is basically methadone when I'm asking for heroin but it's better than nothing. There's that Myth Busters show we catch on tour all the time which is entertaining, didactic, and always involves something or other getting obliterated loudly. There is ample opportunity to watch our Golden State Warriors crush my dreams of enjoyable hometown basketball every year. And I love Alex Trebeck with all my heart and a large majority of my soul. But beyond that, what is there? I mean, really? Oh wait. I remember. LOST starts tonight.

Yes, yes. I and seven hundred million other obsessive lunatics are salivating for this evening's trip back to the island where no one answers questions or behaves rationally or needs to shave to maintain a thin rugged stubble. Don't you dare tell me you aren't excited. Don't you dare enter my living room unless you are silently handing me a beer and scuttling out again.

Speaking of things I’m unduly overjoyed about, I’d like to mention another: shants. I saw my first pair of shants two years ago in Oakland & hadn’t seen one since. This, I assure you, was a good thing. Shants, which may or may not be the accepted term, are essentially a combination of shorts and pants, with one leg long, the other rather high above the thigh. Yeah. Really. Literally as stupid as the turtleneck wifebeater which I pray does not in fact exist.

So, after twenty four months of shants-free living, there I am, walking to work and…double-take. Triple-take. Cargo camouflage shants. God. We can only hope that it took two years to migrate from Oakland into the overall American fashion scene. It’d be the new millennium equivalent of Hammer-pants. This needs to happen. Not to you, necessarily, but to us. Because there’s nothing funnier than seeing a woman wearing shants. Groucho Marx? Steven Wright? Mel Brooks? All cower before shants. At least the ones that are still alive.

For the record, I’m hoping to see zombie Groucho Marx alongside Audrie Hepburn & Jack Keroauc, right before he finds Zach Braff and Jason Biggs and devours their noggin