Far out, far out, far out. Let’s talk pills, folks. Those little sugar-coated suckers that have been humanity’s companions since we first figured out chewing on some random root could make us see sparkly jaguars. Shamans with questionable fashion sense swigged dubious concoctions, all in the pursuit of a better afterlife, or at least a decent trip. Fast forward a few millennia, and here we are, shoving pills down our throats like candy, convinced a daily dose of mystery chemicals is the key to eternal youth, or at least getting through till next Tuesday.

Open up your medicine cabinet, yeah you know the one with the slightly-off-white cabinet door because you can’t quite remember the last time you cleaned it. What horrors lurk within? A rogue bottle of Pepto Bismol from that regrettable Sukhi Chicken incident? A half-used tube of antifungal cream you’re too embarrassed to explain or even remember? We’ve all got our pharmaceutical skeletons, rattling around in there like the ghosts of ailments past.

Personally, mine’s a shrine to hypochondria. I’ve got the usual suspects: the cholesterol reduction speciality for the inevitable heart attack I’m convinced is coming (thanks, Dad, for those genetics), the allergy medications for the dust bunnies that inexplicably trigger my hay fever whenever my friends visit, and of course, the sleep aids for the crippling anxiety that keeps me glued to true crime documentaries until 3 am.

Do I feel like a conquering hero every time I swallow this chemical cocktail? Honestly? No, not really. More like a malfunctioning Roomba, blindly bouncing around hoping not to bump into anything too fragile or important. There’s a strange disconnect, isn’t there? We pop these pills with this blind faith that modern science has bottled up the solution to every human woe. But a nagging voice whispers, “Is this really fixing anything, or just masking the problem?” And the answer is “Yes!”

Then there’s the whole “feed your head” thing. Ah, Jefferson Airplane with Grace Slick, those whimsical harbingers of the psychedelic revolution. Let’s not forget the good ol’ days of expanding your consciousness with mind-bending substances. Sure, some folks found enlightenment, others ended up staring at their navel for a week convinced they are now a bread or Pop Tart toaster.

But hey, at least it was an adventure, right? These days, altered realities come in the form of meticulously measured medicinal doses and some sterile hospital settings. Not exactly Woodstock, is it?

Look, I’m not saying pills are all snake oil. Modern medicine has done wonders. But somewhere along the line, we’ve become reliant on a quick chemical fix, neglecting the power of our own bodies and minds. Maybe it’s time to dust off those metaphorical metaphysical yoga mats and take a more holistic approach. Or, you know, just keep popping pills and hope for the best. After all, denial is a powerful drug too, and it comes with free side effects like blissful ignorance. The choice, as always, is yours. Just try not to choke on those damn pills, alright?

–30–

Alright settle down there, Retros. Yes, let us talk about the television, the telly, the boob tube. Now, before you all start clutching your pearls and wailing about the “vast wasteland” that is television, à la Newton Minow, hear me out. Because amongst the endless parade of reality trash and brain-rotting sitcoms, there were gems. Glittering diamonds in the rough, that somehow managed to inspire this cynical lump of protoplasm you are now reading from.

First up, there was this little show called “Monty Python’s Flying Circus.” Now, I know, I know. Groundbreaking. Hilarious. Influential. Blah blah blah. But here’s the thing: Monty Python wasn’t afraid to be absurd. They took the holiness out of absolutely everything, from stuffy institutions to social norms to walking funny. It was like a comedy explosion that detonated right in the middle of my teenage angst. Suddenly, questioning everything, ripping the sacrosanctness out of all authority, and reveling in the nonsensical – it all seemed not just permissible, but encouraged. It was a rebellion I could get behind while sprawled on the sofa, stuffing my face with chips and salsa.

And then there was “The X-Files.” Now, this wasn’t your typical FBI cop show. Sure, there were shootouts and spooky thrills, but there was also this undercurrent of questioning authority, of searching for the truth that was just out of reach. It planted a seed in my grumpy little adolescent head – a seed of curiosity, a yearning to dig deeper, to challenge the status quo. Plus, it had Scully and Mulder, the ultimate will-they-won’t-they tension that kept me glued to the screen even during their commercials for hemorrhoid cream. (Though, let’s face it, those were unintentionally hilarious too.)

Look, I’m not gonna pretend these shows turned me into Mother Teresa or Albert Einstein. But they did spark something. Monty Python showed me the power of humor, of questioning the status quo, and of not taking life too seriously. The X-Files instilled a sense of curiosity, a desire to explore the unexplained. And hey, maybe that’s not a bad takeaway from a few nights parked in front of the Dopamine Box, scoffing down microwaved burritos.

Now, before you all get too misty-eyed, let’s not forget the sheer amount of rubbish that television spews out. But amidst the trash heap, there are these occasional nuggets of inspiration. So next time you find yourself flicking through the channels, bored out of your gourd, don’t despair. You never know when you might stumble upon a show that’ll make you laugh, think, or maybe even question the very fabric of reality. Just remember to mute the commercials. Unless, of course, they’re selling hemorrhoid cream. Because frankly, those commercials are a comedic goldmine.

–30–