Life According to The Simpsons

In a recent essay about pop culture references in TV comedy, Matt Zoller Seitz wrote about “The Simpsons,” the longest running animated show of all time. In discussing the episode “Krusty Gets Kancelled,” Seitz wrote “if it were a poem, it would need to have nearly as many footnotes as “The Waste Land”.” Indeed, my childhood experience was often filtered through the cultural “footnotes” that “The Simpsons” provided, and my primary source for learning about many public figures was America’s yellow family. For example, I recently read a piece written by Tom Wolfe. The first thing I thought when I read his name was “oh yeah, he was on a Simpsons episode!” In the episode, he was hosting the Word loaf festival along with Gore Vidal, Michael Chabon and Jonathan Frazen (I’m still not sure who they all are). I suppose I felt smart just for knowing the name.

But, “The Simpsons” has provided me with more than just an inflated ego. Many times throughout my life, I have come across moments that have perfectly mirrored an incident on an episode of my favorite TV show. Of course, I immediately have to point out the connection, an impulse that generally receives quizzical looks from friends and family. When I bring up these mediated epiphanies, my mom often says, while rolling her eyes, “life according to ‘The Simpsons,’” but I can’t help it. To know that someone out there must be experiencing the same things I’m going through and coming out the other side with nothing but laughter is encouraging. The fact that that man happens to be the brilliant Matt Groening is even more exciting. Is Seitz’ T.S. Elliot comparison accurate? I think so.

Chillin' at the Quality Inn

I began to sort our laundry into piles as my mom passed it to me through the window. Oliver, our cat, sat in the corner in misery. He had not been outside in weeks, and his litter box really smelled. Later that night, I tried in vain to play my video games in peace, knowing full well that living with four people in one room would allow for precious few quiet moments. This was our experience living in the Quality Inn for three months.

            We had just moved to a strange and unfamiliar place known as Indio. In addition to our room, our reduced rate of $50 a night got us a continental breakfast (complete with pre-packaged cereal and bland scrambled eggs that required a liberal dousing of salt). One time, my brother and I got into a betting war with our parents over the nature of the Cheerios they served (they insisted they were honey nut, but our youthful taste buds could easily detect the distinct lack of sugar). It turns out we were right, but, as parents, I suppose they reserved the right to decide not to pay us.

            The hotel manager, who reminded me of Apu from the Simpsons (a high complement), seemed to barely tolerate our stay, particularly when our room began to grow mold and we had to move all of our belongings to another room. While most of my memories of living at the Quality Inn consist of swimming in a very cold pool and watching surprisingly engaging telenovas at the Laundromat, I know looking back that I grew closer to my family during those three months than any self-respecting twelve-year-old should.

A Perfect Strike

The pins ungracefully crashed to the polished floor as he bowled his first strike of the game. And what a strike it was. He turned back to me and gave me a thumbs up, accompanied with a big, toothy smile that seemed to say “Here I am world, just try and stop me.” He came to sit down next to me while he waited for his next turn. He held out his hand in front of me. “Hi, my name Tony.” My hand met his halfway, and we shook. He shook hands the way he bowled, aggressively and stronger than he probably realized. “Did I get your name?” he asked. Yes, he had gotten my name; several times, in fact. But I didn’t mind meeting Tony again. In fact, I was honored. “My name’s Kyle,” I reiterated with a smile. He seemed genuinely glad to meet me again for the first time.

He sure loved to talk about his siblings, more so than most people I know. “I have two brothers,” he told me with confidence.  He got up again to bowl, and this time he did not get a strike. In fact, he only hit a few pins. But, he was unwavering in his resolve. “One of these days, I’m gonna get a trophy!” he told me. Despite the fact that he is a grown man with Down’s syndrome, I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that one day, he will.