David Caolo

With the news that Jay Leno will host a prime time talk show after handing The Tonight Show over to Conan O’Brien, I’ve been thinking about talk shoes in general.

I’m bored with the format. Introduction, monologue, skit, parade of guests who shamelessly plug their latest project. The host usually sits behind a desk while the guest is in a chair. It’s not a bad formula — it’s worked for decades — it just feels stale to me.

Now, I’m not opposed to talk shoes, either. I like to see my favorite celebrities talking about their lives, sharing funny stories and so on. I’d just like to see the networks try something new. For instance, who says the host needs a desk? Or, that they even need to be in a studio? Why not film them grocery shopping, walking in the park, riding in a cab

Send the host to the celebrity’s house instead of bringing him/her to a studio. Bring cameras into the infamous “green room” and chat there. Anything!

Again, I like talk shows. Here’s hoping for a shakeup.

Earlier this afternoon, I was doing my Saturday chores. Folding laundry, moving trash to the shed, tidying up the house. With the TV off, Norah Jones on iTunes and my wife out with the kids, I was having a nice time.

I walked into the playroom, and it looked like the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop had exploded. Dried Play Doh was everywhere. I went into the kitchen, got a trash bag, and returned to the playroom.

As I bent over to start scooping, I saw the kids’ dry erase board. On it was scribbles, dots and my daughter’s name, written in her own hand. Her squiggly little letters declared ownership of the random markings above and below. As I stared her little piece of artwork, I couldn’t help but acknowledge how earth-shatteringly awesome my life is.

My parents worked two jobs each and were the very definition of “broke.” My dad was gone before my sisters and I woke up in the morning, and returned each night to find us sitting patiently at the dinner table, not permitted to begin eating until he arrived.

My mother worked the graveyard shift at the hostpial, and went back to sleep after getting us out the door to school. As a parent myself, I understand the full weight of the sacrafices they made for us, and I’ll love and respect them for the rest of my life for it.

It’s a different story with my own family. We’re not rich; far from it. But my wife works as an elementary school teacher, and spends the whole summer at the lake or beach with the kids. It’s great for all three of them; a dream life.

But the biggest dream realized is my own. For years, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could work from home? Wouldn’t it be phenomenal if I was a major part of the Mac community? Wouldn’t it be amazing if I was always available for my kids, whenever they need me?”

I spend two days a week working outside of my house. Two days. Other than that, I’m either working from the kitchen table or with some of my friends at a co-operative office. I’m the co-lead blogger at one of the top Mac sites on the web. I’ve never missed a ballet rehearsal or recital, soccer game, school “show,” birthday party or whatever.

My wife and I aren’t rich, but we pay our bills and have enough left over for an occasional day at Water Wiz. And that’s just perfect by us.

I love that I can recognize the improvements in Grace’s scrawled letters. I love that I know what the kids’ favorite books are, the names of their school buddies and the silly routines that get them to bed.

Most importantly, I know that it can end in an instant.

Sometimes, things are so good, I just want to stop and write it down. I’m not religious, but I’m certainly blessed.

Even the most dedicated health fanatic eats a value meal once in a while. With that in mind, I’m allowing myself to violate my own promise to be more positive. Forgive me.

It doesn’t have to be, of course. But the people in charge think you’re stupid.

This became apparent to me when that asinine Friends was a hit. Six beautiful, young New Yorkers spent all of their time drinking coffee out of enormous cups or solving serious problems in their gymnasium-sized apartment. Problems like, “Rachael can’t find the right shoes and her mother is coming to visit! What is she going to do? She really needs those shoes.”

It ran for 10 years.

Shows that actually engage your grey matter (other than the part that says, “Lift Bud Light to mouth”) get canned because their smaller audiences can’t sustain the obscene cash flow that executives demand. Despite critical acclaim and armfuls of awards, shows like Arrested Development and now Pushing Daisies are canceled. Battlestar Galactica is among the best shows on TV, and Sci-Fi treats it like Sloth.

Perhaps there ought to be a Quality Network. We’ll call it QN - TV For People Who Are Insulted By Knight Rider. Smaller audiences, smaller budgets, reduced broadcasting hours and a couple dozen KILLER shows.

It’s starting to happen on cable (Mad Men is a fine example). While the Big Four networks pump out another season of Wife Swap, cable is producing television we actually want to watch.

NBC’s The Office seems like an exception, until you realize it was saved by iTunes. NBC wanted to can it.

Now you know why I don’t watch much TV.

One more thing: Get off my lawn.

First a bit about me.

Both of my parents worked when I was a kid. I mean they worked like dogs. Dad was the business manager at the local hospital and mom did a variety of things — from department store clerk and secretary to dental hygenest. We lived in a small apartment owned by my aunt and uncle, who lived next door. My parents busted their asses like slaves so that my sisters and I could have clothes, food and (occasionally), toys. As a child I loved them; as a parent I admire them.

When I got home from school, the house was empty. I’d let myself in, make a snack and … you guessed it … turn on the TV. It was my companion for many years.

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