“You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”
–Joni Mitchell
Dudes and chicks alike, listen to my tale of woe. You see, last
Sunday night was shaping up to be uncommonly sweet. Having
fulfilled my Catholic duties by attending afternoon Mass, I had
planned a leisurely evening of slumping in front of my TV while
procrastinating on homework due the next day. Punk’d was on
MTV, Viva la Bam was on deck and Wild Boyz would
follow. Afterwards I considered partaking in a 30-minute rampage
through Grand Theft Auto: Vice City before the real
highlight of the evening–watching The Hulk on the BBC.
But alas, such idle revelry was not meant to be. When I turned
to good ole’ channel 22 expecting to see the muscle-bound green
behemoth pounding cinematic arse (see right), I found myself
watching the blurred images of what looked to be a public access
station. This unforeseen development royally sucked.
The apparent comatose status of the BBC has caused a genuine
rift in campus entertainment. Movie options have never been more
limited. Some of the underclassmen are too young to recall, but
back in the old days Showtime and HBO were included in the basic
cable package for all on-campus dorms and apartments. Not only were
we able to view relatively recent films, but also the illicit
pleasures of The Red Shoe Diaries and Taxi Cab
Confessions. Two years after the tragic removal of premium
channels from University cable, I still feel a twinge of nostalgia
every Thursday night for the soft-core sins of old.
The BBC provides an invaluable service to Billikens–it saves us
money. I know what you’re thinking: “Hey Butler, Blockbuster Video
is just down the road, so why not walk your portly butt down there,
rent The Hulk and get some exercise in the process?”
First and foremost, I like my wallet and everything in it.
Walking down Lindell Boulevard after the sun sets is a recipe for
disaster, as any seasoned Midtown veteran can attest.
Apart from a disastrous underage alcohol purchase during my
freshman year, which resulted in my then-luxurious mane of hair
being tenderly petted by an area crackhead, I’ve spent nearly three
years in this urban jungle relatively unscathed. I like to think I
have common sense, and it tells me not to visit Blockbuster in the
dark without a car and possibly a firearm.
Secondly, word has it that The Hulk sucks, and I’d hate
to spend the money to rent it and be disappointed. Being a movie
geek, if I rented every movie I had the slightest inkling to watch,
my bank account would drop faster than the public’s respect for
Paris Hilton. Being “Don Jon de Butler” is mighty expensive, and I
would seriously hate to deprive any prospective ladies or homies
the pleasure of my company because of my own selfishness.
On a more serious note, the BBC also aired many classic films
that would have otherwise remained unseen by many campus residents.
Before this year, I had never seen Lawrence of Arabia, yet one
boring night this year, I decided the time had come to experience
the epic firsthand. And guess what? The movie was pretty cool, even
if it didn’t have the bitchin’ special effects found in today’s
motion pictures.
Last year’s clutch decision to air Scarface, when the
film was all but impossible to obtain on DVD, was particularly
inspired. I lost track of the classes I skipped while attempting to
perfect my Tony Montana imitation.
While the thrill of “Soft-core Thursdays,” and the ESPN-style
running commentary associated with them, may be forever gone from
these hallowed halls, I can only hope that the BBC shall rise
again. Until that glorious day, I will attempt to fill this
insufferable hole in my soul through the parental cruelty of Bam
Margera, and the sheer stupidity of Steve-O and Pontius. When 10
p.m. rolls around, I guess I’ll be at Mass, but a part of me will
forever remain on my couch. Come back soon dear BBC, we miss
you.
Jon Butler is a junior studying communication.
