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As we know, I've always watched soaps, at least for as long as I can remember--and I can remember pretty far back, to the playpen era of my days.
Days of Our Lives has popped into view on more than one occasion--back in the early '70s Doug-Addie-and-Julie salad days; during the early and mid '80s "Fancy Face" (gag) Hope and Bo (aka Hopeless and Bozo) era; and in the I-live-in-Texas-now-and-everyone-I-work-with-is-watching-Marlena-being-possessed-by-the-devil times in the mid- to late '90s.
But I've been absent from the scene for a while now. I loved the punch and pathos of Nicole's (Ari Zucker) storylines throughout the 2000s and followed the delectable James Scott from his role as Ethan Cambius on All My Children to his role as E.J. DiMera on Days. But we also endured a lot of "chain-yanking" storylines-to-nowhere thanks to James Reilly, the man who brought us a possessed Marlena (Diedre Hall) and a multidimensional Kristin (Eileen Davidson) but also tortured us with tedium and frustration as Marlena became (and then unbecame) the Salem Stalker and Sami, Austin, Carrie, and Mike Horton went through various couplings and uncouplings with only Alison Sweeney (Sami) being worth the trouble of hating/loving.
I don't know what prompted me to tune into Days recently--maybe it's as simple as I was home on a weekday and caught an episode, then caught another later that week, and then another. So now I find myself semi-hooked. Not committed, mind you, but intrigued at least. We had the return of Vivian Alamain (Louise Sorel) for a while and the disassociative identities of Abigail Horton DiMera, entertainingly portrayed by Marci Miller. We had a fun few days with Marlena, Vivian, and Kate (Lauren Koslow) being locked in a DiMera mansion secret room by Abby/Gabby/Dr. Laura, whiling away the time getting the play-by-play on Marlena's demonic possession. (Kate: "Well, you never really talk about it, and I've always wondered why.") There's enough story so far to keep me entertained, although I can't say that I really care about any of the characters.
But that could also be said about my approach to TV if not all media these days, whether scripted or reality-based. It's all a bit silly, whether it's Mad Men or Neighbours, The Handmaid's Tale or Isidingo, CNN or Dos mujeres, un camino. I can't get too worked up. I really can't be arsed to care because our media-makers no longer care. It's all circuses and no bread, but I need to cut down on the carbs anyway.
I predict that the revolution will be televised, but the broadcast will be interrupted repeatedly because the U.S. President tweeted out his daily grievances and character failings, there was a school shooting or a domestic/international terrorist incident, or Samantha Bee called the First Daughter a Very Bad Word. See you next Tuesday!
However, there is one character on Days that just might make me start "caring" (or something) again--and that is Xander, played by Scottish actor and Adonis-dressing-to-the-left-in-swimtrunks Paul Telfer.
Good gods in heaven, I would rob banks, birth children, and throw puppies and kittens from fast-moving Via trains for one night with Paul Telfer. Well, not so much him the actor (although I'm sure he has a lovely personality) or him the character (a bit too dark and menacing for my tastes), but his body, particularly his chest and the millions of dark hairs that cover its shapely greatness.
And by "night," I mean at least several weeks at a stretch, until one of us got tired of the other or had to go to work to earn enough to keep ourselves well-stocked in oysters and Viagra.
In the scene above, I honestly don't know how the actors kept their minds on their lines. Even the (I'm assuming) straight ones like Eric Martsolf (Brady Black), no shirtless slouch himself (although not my type at all). I don't think that even the most hetero of the hetero could look away from those headlights burning holes into your head where your eyes used to be.
I admit that it's slightly more likely that I would vote for Donald Trump in 2020 than it would come to pass that I'd do the beast with two backs with Mr. Telfer. Therefore, I'm willing to accept an alternative, a facsimile: Sex robots!
Despite the wailing of opinion writers and gnashing of Twitter users, I have absolutely no moral qualms about this cultural turn. In fact, I am already saving for my first one. Or ten.
Seriously, sex robots could help a lot of shy people like me loosen up and get better acquainted with our sexual natures--and for once in my gol'-darned life, sex robots would be all about me and my needs, not anybody else's. I don't care how intelligent they are, artificial or otherwise. I'm not investing in a platoon of willing, horny, hairy manbots because they're smart and good conversationalists--I'm opening a tax-free investment account with RBC because willing, hairy, horny manbots would be a hot way to spend a cold Canadian winter or even a mild but humid Toronto spring, summer, and fall. I figure by the time these fuck-machines take over the world, I will be dead and gone or at least too exhausted to care. By the time these digital manwhores start making policy and throwing the normies into jail, my Paul Telfer/Xander sex robot will have stopped being an object of my lust and instead will look as dated and dowdy as my youthful obsession with Gino Vannelli and his curly, flouncy hair (both head and chest). Bring it, WestWorld. I am not afraid. This is the kind of revolution I would embrace--likely with both arms and thighs.
Despite this wankfest designed as commentary, I do tend to shy away from these sorts of slavish devotions to actors and their bodies. I pride myself on being better than that, even though I'm not, just more discreet than most of my friends. Besides, living in the big city affords me the opportunity to fall in love a million times a day on the subway, the streetcar, and the street. It's always unrequited, slightly frustrating, but does no one any harm.
Nonetheless, a night with Paul Telfer (or his compliant robotic doppelganger) might keep me off the street for a few Days or more.
Call me, Paul. Write me, Apple. Do not text me, sex robot-hating moralists. We can make this fun, we can make this work, we can live a satisfying life of no-guilt, no-disease sexual pleasure with the biggest worry to health and humanity being some burnt-out motors and a few brown-outs in the neighborhood.
Unless some asshole scientist invents digital herpes.
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