Wayne Michael DeHart  (August, 2023)

Writer’s Opening Note:
The following wordstorm is the combined result of the joy of overdosing on “Monk” episodes, inadvertently being exposed to 20 minutes of the Cable Guy on a SiriusXM comedy channel while going for groceries, and trying to carry on a freewheeling conversation with myself using an accent – all in a 36-hour period. Mix in a lack of sleep and a sugar high, and this is the codswallop you get. The story, the wide swath of phonetic spelling, and the photos/tags are meant to be all in good fun.

A Note of Caution:  There are snippets of “spicy,” “crude,” and “irreverent” material in the mix, but very little of a nature that wasn’t heard on Seinfeld or Friends on network television in the ’90’s, or Two and a Half Men in more recent years. At no point does it cross into the “yikes!” territory of the South Park experience.  Be mindful that it was written as a parody of standup comedy club fare; that is, crafted to be heard, rather than read. The written word being absent the ability to employ facial expressions, hand gestures, body movements, volume fluctuations, etc., the exaggerated phonetic spellings used arbitrarily here are critical to project a “Larry Live” effect. Trust me, it’s so much easier to just “talk good” and spell words correctly! Deliberate misspellings create a “Where do I draw the line” dilemma. I wrote it like I imagined he, and those of a similar brand, would say it and, because it’s a one-off for me, I winged it. This should not be interpreted as an endorsement of the man’s style or content. It is not. Hatefulness is not my thing. Nor is it meant to mock the countless good folks who do struggle mightily with the written word, while standing tall in other endeavors. Stereotyping for laughs, behind the shield of “anything goes, it’s just jokes,” seems to go hand-in-hand with many comedy club performers of all social and political leanings, and is, in one form or another, just part of their schtick. No classes or groups seem to be immune or out of bounds these days, whether on the giving or receiving end, and depending on which XM comedy station one tunes into. (One features performer after performer doing routines that relentlessly use the F-word to a point of numbing the brain, from beginning to end.) Larry’s number, and style, came to mind simply because of the aforementioned, timely radio exposure, and the “earworm” it left in my head. I managed to avoid using “Git ‘er done” while getting this done!

It should be noted that no animals, except maybe a chicken, were harmed during this process. Because supposedly every possible joke has “been done” a dozen times already in the internet age, I swear on Nancy Sinatra’s walkin’ boots that I’ve neither borrowed nor stolen any of the following material from anyone, including Larry (or Moe, or Curly.) I actually baked this pie from scratch, and will let the chips, be they Ruffles or Ridgies, fall where they may.

7:16 PM
Stummick’s growlin’. Guess I gotta eat. Don’t need to. I just ate last night, what’s the deal? I’m old, and food has lost its appeal. Except for this banana. It has a peel.

I gave up fast food, cuz I swallow too slow.

Gave up cookin’ when I burnt that chicken two wintas ago. Little clucka sure did make a rackit. No wonda that guy in the green pick-up sold him (coulda been a her, I didn’t check real close cuz it didn’t seem kosha) so cheap-like. Bless his/her heart. The chicken, I mean, not the dick in the truck. (I knew he was a Dick because his license plate said “RICHERD”. But the joke’s on him, cuz he done spelt Ritchurd rong.)

Where’s my slippas at?

7:31 PM
My refrigaraider’s coolin’ box has ice cream in the top part, and proteen shakes, root beer, and Docta Peppa down below. And a jug of that fancy-pantsy allmin milk they show on the TV. (Are the people who milk them allmins trained right? Do they wear gloves? Is Peter Paul their boss man?) I keep it just in case the tall lady across the hall drops by. She’s very “a-vaunt-guard” as they say in Paris, Loozy-anna, and Whales. Wears Goo-chee, probably eats soo-shee. She’s lived there eva since that skinny, nekkid woman stopped cummin’ over here to borrow some sugar. When I ran out, she ran out, and kept on runnin’ like that Forest Gumper guy. Then this here tall lady moved inta the skinny woman’s spot, but she ain’t never knocked on my door for my sugar, or anythin’ else, so I figger she’s wayyy overdue. Maybe next week. Oh, and there’s some butta in there. Well, marge-a-reen, to be honist. The guy at the food store said he can’t believe its snot butta. After tastin’ it, you betcharass I can!

7:40 PM
There’s chew-up food in there too. Whippee pies with extra cream, cheesy fingers, about a pound of Mr. Mayer’s baloney slices, and a jar of sour dills that I opened the day I first watched that Buffy girl put a beet down on them neck-bitin’ dead people with the long teeth. I assed a guy at the VFW what happens if my pickles get too old and he chukkled on it a bit (funny old fella) and said, “Well, buddy, based on them face-rinkles ya got showin’, they’re probly gittin’ more sour by the hour.” How great is that? If I hadn’t assed him, I might have messed up and tossed my pickles at the same time I was tossin’ my cookies. The more ya know . . .

My former co-workers was SO snooty. They used that hi-brow talk when makin’ fun of my sandwitches. “Marvin, your  bo-low-nyuh is turnin’ green.” “No, its snot. This here’s real ‘Murican baa-lo-nee, it don’t never rot nor turn colors, and my first name is Melvin. My baa-lo-nee has a first name too, just like your Charlie tuna there, only betta.” Stanley, meenwile, nibbled on “toe food,” yuck, whatever that is. Brad, the foreman, wolfed down Waldorf’s salad one day while Waldorf was smokin’ in the can. Don’t smoke, kids, you could lose your lunch.

Where’s the dang remote at?

7:48 PM
Only 12 minnits till the next Season 5 “Monk” eppy-sode is on this newfangled TV plan I’m payin’ a leg and an arm for. “Screamin’ programmin’,” they calls it. I don’t mind that it’s screamin’ cuz I can use my remote, if I can find it, to skweeze the loudniss button to where the TV box ain’t really screamin’ at all. Still, I tried to get the non-screamin’ verzhin, figurin’ it would be cheapa. When I called, an ottomaticated voice said, “You are color numba 14,” so I put the phone peece down and assed that Siri gal what was up with that. (Gus says her real name is Siri S. Lee. Oh, please, Gus, seriously? Now, he might be fibbin’ at me, or tryna  butta my beans just fer chits n jiggles, but it makes all kinds a sense in my head.) Ennyways, she said color numba 14 was “grewsome gray.” Wow, she’s good. I was lookin’ at my mug in the bathroom mirror just last night, after my monthly bodywashin’, and sure enough, I had grew some gray hairs that was stickin’ strait out my earholes. It looked all gee-narly ‘n nasty. My mug, I mean, not them hairs. I mean, at my age, a man likes him some brissles on his brush, some pie on his plate, and some gas in his tank (instead of his gut.)

Time was whizzin’ by, so I hung up the phone peece and went to eat some homemade Bikkardi & buttabean ice cream I made in my blenda. Yeah, I made sure the beans got buttid (thanks, Gus) before I shook ’em up, I ain’t stoopid  stewpid dumm. Good stuff. Yummy in the tummy and rummy in the dummy.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. TV. My VA doc says I got the OCD thing bad, but I’m guessin’ he ain’t never watchd Adrian Monk for 44 minnits at a time. I like the guy cuz he makes me feel all normal and reglar. Monk, I mean, not the doc. Okay, yeah, alright, I’ll fess up –  and cuz I got a geezer crush on his helpa lady, Natalie. Monk’s helpa, not the docta’s. Keep up. But, I digress. (That means I’m ramblin’ sideways with a hat on.)

7:56 PM
Got even more grub in the pantree over there. It’s supposed to be a linnin closet, but I been usin’ it for food cuz I don’t wear linnins no more, not since they re-tired me early for missin’ work too much. (I says” I only missed 4 days” and they says “In one week” and I says “That stuff happins” and they said “17 weeks in a row?” and I says “Oh, ya got me there. Can I keep the shirts?”)  Hope the landlord man don’t find out, like he did bout the nekkid sugar woman, because of the smell and all. (Hmm. maybe I might best re-frase that.) The cans and boxed stuff sit there fine, but those taters and tamaters git grewsome gray (ha, ha) in the summertime! Stink City, man. Pee-yew! Skunks and manoor would be gangrene with envy. Speakin’ of which, the stentch cleans out my nose conjestchun better than those aim-n-squeeze drops from the dolla store. And that there’s my Docta Doogy Howza health tip of the day. (Best doc I ever had, even though he was younga then a goalfish. His nurse reminded me of Wunda Woman, so I payed dubble without him even askin’.)

8:00 PM
Monk’s on. Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:01 PM
First Cumershill’s on. Boo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:06 PM
Adrian and Natalie look tired already. I’m kinda draggin’ butt, myself. Could be a long show for all three of us.

What am I gonna eat?

Looky here.  Five cans a chili, four packs a crackas, three cans a pee soup, two jars a peanit butta, and a partri . . . never mind. I’d go with the chili, but I took an ex-lax bout an hour ago by mistake. Not chittin’ ya. Thawt it tastid funny for a Her-she’s square. My bad. My gut’s startin’ to rumble like that Mount Vez Soovy Iss over yonder in Italy town. Hear that? I ain’t heard sounds like that from my belly hole since I guzzled a whole glass of proon jooce my first mornin’ in basic trainin’, thinkin’ it was grape jooce. Yeah, I ten to screw up like that, bein’ humane and all. But no one’s perfict, well, cept maybe that Gennyfur Anustan woman who’s always braggin’ about havin’ so many friends in New Yawk City. And yes, Miss Genny, Raychell and that Ross feller WERE on a brake! 

We had hand-to-hand fightin’ trainin’ a couple hours after that proon jooce made me loose, and my own private (I kin spell private cuz I was an army one at the time, ya see) Vez Soovy Iss started eruptin’ just as I was fallin’ on some guy’s head. They took him to the infirmry place to try to wash the stank off. We didn’t see him for three days. The other guys all liked me after that cuz the guy was not only another Ritchurd the Dick, but he was the badassy drill Sgt. teachin’ the class! He was givin’ me a bunch of baa-lo-nee as he was slappin’ me around like a marshamellow, so I used my kneebones and kept wackin’ him hard just below his willypickle (seemed like it might be one of those nobby, minny-jerkins I seen at the Walmart) till he moned and groned and turned as green as month-old, importid bo-low-nyuh.  Then he flopped over backwids like a French pengwin in heat while he was still pinchin’ on my neckskin with his fat fingas, and that’s how I landed face down on top of the dood’s man’s nose canal. I just laid on top there watchin, like a Sleepin’ Tom, till he started chokin’ on my fewms of doom. In a flash, I’m tellin’ ya, he was out cold as a witch’s boobies. (They won’t let me say tiddies when I talk in writin’ like this. It’s OK. Goggle makes the rules and I follow rules so I won’t write tiddies again, accept when I have to explain why I wrote boobies instead of tiddies.) In the end, the Sarge was agassed at my gas, ya see. 

I bet you thawt the title line at the top of this crock of shiitakis was about food and my dinna tonight!  You never stooped to think there might be willypickles and baloney slaps at Fort Dicks, didya? Well, sir, you know what they say about assumin’. It makes rear ends outta both of us, just ass anyone that’s got good skoolin’. O yeah, and its just one of them co-winsidences about Fort Dicks name and all. Nuthin’ to do with the Ritchurd stuff I been talkin’ on. This here’s real Dicks at the Jerzey army camp, just look at that Webkwest map they show for free right cheer on the webby. Oops, looks like they spelt it rong, just like that guy in the truck. The map people wrote “Dix,” probly cuz Goggle got a rule agin it , like with the two witches things I just went on about. They sayin’ some rich fella killed some blue bird and now he gits a dolla every time Goggle shows an “x” cuz he just bought the letter for hisself from the alfabet gooroos. Nuff a that. But I was there at the fort place in live person and I can sware it on a bible (or on that Sinatra gal’s walkin’ boots. Didja see what I just did there? I stole that line from the very top, up there ↑⇑, from that guy whooze lookin’ ova my shoulder blades while I’m busy free-writin’ here, like a honist man in his undaware. Me, not him.)

The drill sarges kept yellin “I want all you swingin’ dicks to git lined up right cheer.” That’s why a long time ago it was named “Fort Swingin’ Dicks” cuz a that, but some of the traynees couldn’t spell swingin’ when writin’ lettas home to their girly frends to watch out for Jody the Molesta, so the army dropped that swingin’ part in what’s called an act of mercee.  And that’s the true, facshewil story on how the place got its name. I don’t fib (ha-ha.)

Well, enough of that gossipin’ down mammary lane for now, but if this belly don’t stop gurglin’ soon I may have to consult Docta Peppa over there in the  refrigaraider’s coolin’ box ’bout drinkin’ some fizzy and gettin’ busy, if ya catch my wind. It’ll probly be blowin’ in soon, comin’ north, from south of my Waste line, so might wanna grab a nosepin, which is like a closepin, but for the nawstrils. Breathin’ bad air ain’t good for your Atoms apple, unless you’re a lady person, and then it don’t matter none cuz Eve gave hers to a snake, or somethin’ like that. Neva mind.

8:23 PM

Gotta deside soon about suppa, so my food can settle before I hit the hay. (I wunda, when a farma tells his wife he’s gonna hit the hay, does she give him the key to the barn?) I know – yack, yack, yack. Some of us old foegeese who live alone can flap our gums till the cows come home (and maybe bring us some of that udder kind of milk.) Sometimes, we hum to ourselves in strange voices and diffrint acksents, just to have some cumpanee. I studied Rose Etta Stone (that’s Harry Stone’s wife, but he don’t care. The price was only $19.99 for a whole week, and Harry paid me all of it before he dropt her off.) She’s all old and rubbery-skinned and wears a pirate patch like that Lizzi woman ova east in them New Hampcheer woods. I read about it on some dweeb’s story-writin’ place on my desk-sittin’ computa. He’s not two good at it. He should let me write some of this stuff and pay me $19.99, like Harry did, and then pretend its his writin’. I won’t tell.

Movin’ on,  Now I can chew the fat in all 7 romantical langwidges: jabberwocky, jibber-jabber, hogwash, hooey, malarkey, poppycock, and the one I took to the best, bullchit. Pretty impressive, ness pa? (That’s Porchageez for “ain’t it, sucka?”)

Still, even after gittin’ smart, I don’t smell spell good. Life is hard. Talk is cheap. Rent is high. Sun is down. Time is up. Up is down. See what’n I just did there? 23 straight words with only one sillabill. Thelma Stoopins said she read on FacesBook that the reckerd is 22 and that if I could make 23, she’d make me a duzzen choklit cupcakes tomorra in exchainge for me fixing her pipes. So I guess the frostin’s gonna be flyin up in 36B. I don’t know how to fix pipes, but I’ll look at hers while I’m eatin’ on those treats cuz I’m a good ol’ guy deep down undaneeth my funnymakin’ outsides. Thelma lost her husbind about two years ago now. Wasn’t sad. He didn’t go belly up or nothin’ badlike. She just lost him in a poker game at that same VFW where I got the sour pickle tip. That’s better’n one of those devorces them cowboy musick singas are always belchin’ about. They’ll hook up agin someday at the ol’ buryin’ ground, or so she says. When they do, she should bring cupcakes as kind of a sorry-Clem-bout-going-all-in-with-just -a-pair- of-4’s kinda apologee. I’ll coach ‘er up on pokerin’ smarts if’n I need more cupcakes after her pipes are workin’ gooder than new.

8:31 PM
Monk’s back, but where’s my Natalie? She best not be messin’ round with that musselbound Albright fella or I’ll have to write another letta to the show’s editor to ass him her the persin to fire that guy, toot sweet.

8:37 PM
I already solved who killed the sailsman, so I got time to yammer at you guys a bit more. I think the woman in the pink hat with the orindge feathas . . . oh, crap, the ex-lax is kickin’ in hard, gonna have to eat and run. Eat and run. No? Neva mind, agin.

Time out. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. (That’s army talk from the olden days.)

8:50 PM
Monk’s about to do his “Here’s what happined . . . “ thingy, so I gotta haul my ass-(Oops, just farted. I hope.)-ets out of the fridge and pick my poysin, pronto. There was a mustid cumershill earlier that showed three mo-rons slatherin’ it on hot dogs and they smiled a lot. I wanna smile a lot, but I’m stuck without a weener. Or mustid. Or soshill skillz.

Anyway, hoss-puckery aside, I’m just hunkerin’ down now for the home stretchy with Adrian and Natalie. (She’s baaaaack, and I’m smilin’ like the mustid mo-rons.)

Guess I’ll unlawk the barn and hit the hay now and dream about the tall lady droppin’ by my place and doin’ the hoo-chee coo-chee in a red rubba ranecoat. That fantasee usually puts me in snewzville real quick-like, if you catch my driff. (I winked, iffen ya can’t see me.)

Nytol.

P.S. Looks like my new spellchecka was worth the five bucks, even though the instruckshuns are confusin’. Sumtimes, ya gotta stop bein’ cheep and role out the cash, dontcha know.

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Writer’s Middle Note:
Had I been binge-watching earlier seasons of “Monk” at the time I wrote this, and had I been exposed to 20 minutes of the likes of Bob Newhart, Trevor Noah, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey or either of the Amys (Poehler, Schumer), before tackling this task – well, the content and tone of the delivery would have been light years different, and my geezer-crush would have smoothly transferred over to Sharona, Monk’s first “sidekick.”

Natalie and Sharona were opposites in just about every way imaginable – background, physical appearance, demeanor, temperament, hand gestures, etc. Over time, both developed a deep understanding of, and an amazing tolerance for, Monk’s many unconventional quirks, his phobias, and his OCD-related idiosyncracies; each of which, all of which, would have tested the patience of Job. Tony Shalhoub’s title character, a sympathetic figure who was oftentimes endearing, also struggled with a distinct lack of empathy and compassion that could sometimes be trying, even for the most circumspect viewer. Nonetheless, each episode was a satisfying slice of chocolate silk pie in a television wasteland with too many moldy muffins.

Thus, the purpose of this note is to provide some introductory context, insight, and background, for readers not familiar with the show, as they transition into the metaphorical allegory (or is it an allegorical metaphor?) that is the Writer’s Closing Note below. But first, take in the photos, clear your mind, and have some ice cream.

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“Okay, here’s what happened . . . You see, . . .  Wait, you there, yeah, you in the back, can you hold it down? We’re solving a crime here.” (Natalie’s flashing that “Melvin, I only have eyes for you” look.)

Scene: A 25-ish wiseacre and potential witness offers to disclose evidence if Monk and Sharona can chug two pitchers of beer faster than he and his buddy. Sharona accepts.
Monk: “But Sharona, I don’t drink.” Sharona: ” Don’t worry about it – I do!”
She outdrinks both guys, one turns over a key, and Monk stares at Sharona in disbelief. She looks at him and says, “Four years of Catholic high school.”

This YouTube link fully captures the range of emotions when  Sharona and Natalie meet for the first, and only, time. It takes place in the show’s final season, five years after Sharona went back home to New Jersey. Worth a watch (4 minutes) leading into the Writer’s Closing Note.

Tall lady probably wears Goo-chee . . .

This is toe food, if you ain’t never seen it before. Looks like fried Spam squares, spiced up with green wormlets on top. Stanley’s was squares too, but his was white and looked kinda half-pastyish and half-squishy. I’ve always known about finga food and it’s called that because you eat it with your fingas. So you see the problem, right? Notice there’s 10 pieces here ? Lots of us got 10 toes. Co-wincidence? I think not. Ennyway, takes all kinds, I guess.

And this is the result of Mr. Toe Food and Ms. Soo-shee gittin’ all boozed up ‘n throwin’ good cents out the winda. Twins. Both came in at 2 pounds, 2 ownces.

OK,  I didn’t menshin I had about five of these with the pickle and  baa-lo-nee,
but I figgered you’d just a-soom that I did, based on gawsip ‘n stuff like that.

Peter Paul, Boss Man of the allmin milkers, bringing clusters of joy to the health nuts in New Yawk..

Well, shit crap.

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The crude caveman scrawling the offensive and suggestive language above has finally left the room. He has a big day on tap for tomorrow in 36B. I, on the other hand, have no plans, as usual.
With that in mind, l’m going to  get my feet wet in the social commentary pool. It’s a wading pool, so I won’t be diving in headfirst. Just want to see what it feels like. If it bombs, it bombs. Life goes on.

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Writer’s Closing Note:
Monk ran strong for 8 seasons and 125 episodes from 2002 through 2009. During that time, he had two “caretaker/assistants.”  The first was Sharona Fleming, played by Bitty Schram, and the second was Natalie Teeger,  played by Traylor Howard. Sharona, a single mother, was a brash Jersey transplant with a young son.  A registered nurse, she went to work for Adrian Monk after he struggled for a long time following his wife Trudy’s untimely death in a car bombing. Street-smart and outspoken, she also  assisted him as he worked his way through his crime solving. When Bitty Schram left the show suddenly in Season 3, after 36 episodes, she was replaced by Natalie, a widow with a very cool, adolescent daughter who was able to connect with Monk in a way that Sharona’s young son had not. Natalie left her bartending job under duress and, though not a nurse, she accepted Monk’s offer to be his caretaker/assistant , soon becoming a very doting and caring force in his life, while assisting him with his investigations, just as Sharona had done.

Sharona called him “Adrian,” while Natalie always addressed him as “Mr. Monk,” even 5 years and 87 episodes into her tenure. Natalie tended to be more touchy-feely with him than Sharona was, not in a sexual way, of course, but in a comforting way. He was, by nature, a guy who very much did not like being touched, not only because he was a germaphobe, but because he needed his space in a world without his wife. Natalie was also far more of a gentle spirit than spitfire Sharona. In times past, one might have joked that Natalie was the girl you took home to your parents, and Sharona was simply the girl you took home. Both women were a blessing to Adrian Monk, who  said of Sharona, “When she found me, I was drowning. She saved my life.” In Season 5, he told an interim therapist that Natalie was “very much like Trudy,” a compliment of the highest order. In that same season’s finale, Natalie literally saves his life by pinching off an IV tube a few seconds before a drug, which he is severely allergic, to would have entered his body and killed him. Angels both, each in their own way, they were valued genuinely and immensely by the man who relied so heavily on them to get through each day in the “jungle out there.”

It was a television show, and a very good one at that. 

However, over time, it became the source of a destabilizing distraction to the masses, jeopardizing friendships, splitting families, inevitably leading to a bitter divide that unnerved the nation. It became all about blind loyalties and taking sides. All or nothing. No middle ground. A three-lane highway with no one in the middle lane. The same middle lane that used to be so crowded. Eventually, the powers that be simply closed it down. So what happened then?   Now overcrowded, the people in the remaining outside lanes began to lean on their horns and cuss out and flip off their fellow travelers, at first over minor things, but then with increased intensity and rancor. The more reasonable ones had enough of the infighting and longed for the return of the middle lane. But by then, it’s surface had become cracked and overgrown with weeds, and besides, it was closed off. Without that option, most double-downed on their initial choice of sides , not because it was the logical thing to do, but because the only option remaining was to move over to the other outside lane and look weak and compromised. A proposal was made to not only refurbish and open the middle lane, but to widen it significantly, in effect, resulting in two interior lanes. The two exterior lanes would be moved further apart as a result, but they too would be given an upgrade. Four lanes. The folks in the middle two could choose which exterior lane they felt most comfortable being closest to, having access to, if a situation called for temporarily moving over for one reason or another. A vote on the proposal is coming soon. But how did things get to this point? Who was in those two outside lanes? What was the driving force?

Again, it was a television show, and a very good one at that. 

Wherever human beings have gathered in the years since Monk ended, The Great Debate , i.e.,  “Sharona or Natalie?”, has eventually surfaced and intensified, with the two sides engaging in verbal  and emotional warfare. Long friendships have ended over such disagreements.  People have adopted colors for their favorite – jade green for Sharona and emerald green for Natalie.  In sunlight, it’s easy to tell the two groups apart, even from a distance. But under the streetlights, they blend into one. Who goes there? Friend or foe? Why didn’t one go for yellow and the other brown?  Why are the chosen colors different, yet so similar? Perhaps it is  because, deep down, most  (not all, admittedly) have the same aspirations and share one commonality; they are, first and foremost, fans of the show. Before Sharona left and Natalie arrived, they were all on the same team, because there was only one team. By the time the final episode ended,  the fissure had reached an unnerving width and depth. Arguments got downright nasty and personal as good sense got tossed out the window. I recall one guy defending Bitty Schram, saying if he were younger, that would be his lady of choice. The guy arguing with him asked what would happen when she is no longer young. “I’ll tell you what will happen (not even waiting for an answer), she will be just another OLD BITTY !” “That’s BIDDY, bub, with two d’s, not two t’s.” And that’s when the fight started.

During the show’s final season, the Sharona character returned to San Francisco, and the show, for one episode. Sharona and Natalie met for the first time, each having heard  a lot about the other via a variety of sources. After a momentary stumble out of the gate, upon first being introduced, they were cordial, even friendly, toward each other, but soon the two  found themselves competing to show which one knew Adrian Monk best and was the most attentive to him in the role of his assistant. Eventually, they sat down together and talked it out, each praising and acknowledging respect for the other for their work with him. Their joint knowledge about the guy led to them finding the missing Monk at his wife’s gravesite. By the time Sharona is saying goodbye and leaving to return to New Jersey, we see that the two women recognize and  appreciate the unique bond they share, and we see them part ways with a warm hug. There was the lesson for the masses, that respect and understanding leads to empathy, sympathy, and the willingness and ability to work together when the storm hits. We’ve traveled that road before, and not really that many years ago. It felt good. There were no colors, no teams. The ability to argue without animosity, to debate without discord, to stand on principle without judging others who do the same, all tend to make us stronger, individually and collectively. Not always. Not nearly always. But often enough to sustain a working peace – a working peace that  provides a framework for better communication and eventually . . . the re-opening of those middle lanes, while still maintaining access for all to the exterior lanes on opposite sides of the highway.

With Monk episodes running up to three hours a day on some cable networks, there are no signs that peace on our part of the planet will emerge anytime soon.  Sharona backers and Natalie supporters are constantly at each other’s throats and the vitriol is real.  Up until now, like many Americans, I have remained above the fray because who needs added confrontation in their lives. But after 4 or 5 whoopie pies, a man  gets to thinking. The healing cannot commence until heartfelt communication begins again across the divide. So, with this addition to the website, I have obviously and openly acknowledged my preference for Natalie – not to bait the Sharona side, but rather to open up a dialogue with them, and that begins with honesty, and not name-calling. Unlike many, I could have, just as contentedly, gone the other way. Because both groups, back before Monk came onto the scene, understood the concept of agreeing to disagree about this or that and moving on, without animosity. There. Natalie, with a side of Sharona? Great. Sharona, with a side of Natalie? Works for me. If I have a Celine Dion or “The Notebook” kind of Sunday, Natalie has the edge,  the “it” factor. If I’m listening to the Stones and streaming “Breaking Bad” reruns on a Saturday night, Sharona completes me. I choose to see the good in both characters, which is plentiful, and don’t search for, or focus on, their faults. Why? (1) Because that’s where I failed in my personal relationships, and (2) because both women equally bring comfort and a sense of safety to Adrian Monk, and that’s what sustains him, that’s what gives him strength to face the world each day without Trudy. 

(When I write “to face the world,” I mean it literally. The Natalie-Sharona conflict has extended to many other countries.  Italy, Brazil and Hungary come to mind, places where Monk viewership is high, and the arguments are heated.)

I can’t stress enough that the Sharona group and the Natalie group don’t have to compromise their principles, their beliefs, their morals, or their integrity, to be able to exchange warm greetings, to offer an appropriate version of a “Monk wipe” to someone in need, someone under duress, or to simply be civil with one another. One may be no more likely to switch from Natalie to Sharona than the next person is to switch from Sharona to Natalie, no matter how effectively either states their case, because the chasm may now be too wide, and everything is presented in absolutes. X can care about you, and you about X, even if either, or both, of you are knee-deep in your chosen side’s’ stream, because, in time, this crap will end and most will take a breath and understand, and agree, that it is in all of our best interests to lower the temperature, while recognizing the truism that we look at things from each our own vantage point and life experiences, and sometimes, oftentimes, see different things, but that we can feel the same sense of basic decency, humanity, and camaraderie that we did not all that long ago.  Someone has to be the first to put the saber down. The yelling is ineffective, it is just off-putting and fans the flames even more. The Natalie faction and the Sharona faction can co-exist if both sides will ignore the extremist fringes that distort their own side, the voices that stir the pot for sinister and self-serving reasons, the ones that thrive on conflict and chaos. The Natalie-Sharona clash will, hopefully,  taper down to  simple, agree-to-disagree, honest differences here and there, so that cooler heads can prevail and the shades of green merge into one. And then, just maybe, with a nod to Ms. Natalie and Ms. Sharona, the two sides will be able to close the deal with a handshake or a hug.

Let’s hope that the damage left behind will not be irreparable, that the wounds will heal, and that the scars will serve as reminders not to go down this road again.

Ever.

#

Late Add-on Note: 
If you, the reader, reacted to the lengthy “Closing Note,” by thinking to yourself, “What a Bunch of Baloney,” trust me, I get it. Not my usual fare. But now that I’ve already served it up, all I can do is put some “mustid” on this here bah-lo-nee, smile, hit the hay, and wait for the tall lady in the red raincoat to join me in my dreams.

“Butta bing, butta boom, don’t mess with Buffy, save the whales, look both ways, eat slow, and don’t drink the prune juice.” – Siri S. Lee

Goodnight to the Fine Nine Jennifers, and goodbye to that 5 dollars currently en route to the Spellchecka people so I can finally learn to do the 2-step and keep up with Laura Bell Bundy and her buds :

And on that note, on those notes . . .
goodnight, Natalie, wherever you are.

♦♥♦