GOAL!

Be forewarned, this story is really only funny if you know my mom. As such, read at your own peril (you know, of boredom or whatever).

When you watch as much television as I do, it's necessary to have rules and boundaries established for appropriate viewing conduct. These guidelines have changed and morphed over the years to suit everyone's (but mainly my) viewing needs, taking into account the quirks of fellow viewers and the technological advances (the godsend that is my DVR) that affect the viewing experience. These rules, if strictly observed, allow for the glory of television to be enjoyed as it was intended.

There are numerous rules which are observed, but none so important as raising your hand when you have a question. It may seem juvenile and petty, but believe me, given the two people with whom I watch most of my shows, it's absolutely essential.

You see, when you watch television with people who are easily confused (particularly for shows that involve complex storylines and lengthy story arcs), the only way to stem the tide of questions and not allow for such questions to ruin the viewing experience is to stop the show, call on the raised hand, answer the question, and move on. Otherwise, you (meaning "I") miss the next few minutes of show, thereby leaving me as confused as the question-asker. It quickly spirals down into an irritating session of the blind leading the blind and then no one enjoys anything at all.

Henceforth, the rule was imposed. It was first initiated during Alias, then codified during Veronica Mars--two shows that inevitably led to a hell of a lot of questions. I swear, it's a good thing Alias ended, because if I had to respond to, "Wait a minute, I thought she was dead/evil/Sydney's aunt/mother/cousin/former roommate/accountant..." one more time, I think I'd have killed myself. Please also bear in mind that my mother is the kind of person who will watch the opening scene of a movie, see a man on screen walking down a street, and lean over to me and ask, "Who's that?! Where is he going?!" To which my usual response is, "We don't know yet! I promise they'll tell us." So you can see where Alias and VM were just asking for trouble (read: annoying questions). My brother, while not quite as bad as my mother, also joins in on the question asking, although his confusion generally boils down to him not paying attention rather than jumping the gun on storylines.

The rule actually started out that they could only ask questions during commercial breaks (you know, back in the dark ages when we still had to watch commercial breaks) or that they had to raise a hand to get me to stop the tape and answer a question. You have no idea what kind of pressure it puts on me as a viewer to know that I'm going to undergo a comprehensive quiz every 8-10 minutes. It's always felt like one of those god-awful reading comprehensive tests that we had to take back in school. I'm forced to pay attention to the minutest of details, keep story arcs straight over several seasons, and basically predict the future when questions such as, "So, is he a bad guy?" arise and I have to base a theory on the previous dozen episodes.

It's taxing, believe me.

But also pretty funny a lot of the time.

So the other night my brother, mother, and I were watching ABC's Castle, which is a actually quite good, so you should totally check it out (it's a good, no pressure, little commitment kind of show). Anyway, about two minutes in, my brother raises a hand, I stop the DVR, and field his most frequently asked question, "So, what is this show about?" Easy enough to address when the show is in its third episode and has a very basic premise, but when he comes in half-way through the second season of Burn Notice, it's kind of ridiculous.

Anyway, about a half an hour later, Rick Castle (aka Nathan Fillion aka Malcolm Reynolds aka Cap'n Hammer), says that from the ancient Greek, the word "tragedy" literally means "goat song." I couldn't help but to crack up at my mother's reaction. Rather than raising a hand and asking me for the complete history of ancient Greece and it's linguistic origins, she threw both hands up in the air in what can only be described as, well... "GOOOOOOOAL!"

Unable to contain my delighted curiosity, I stopped the show, saw the look of enlightenment on her face, called on her, and got this as her relieved, awestruck, triumphant response, "I read some stupid book in college called Goat Song and I never knew why it was called that!" It was as though a tremendous burden had been lifted and she could finally go on with her life. I could practically see the lightbulb above her head.

Apparently the book was in fact a tragedy, so I guess the title is appropriate.

This is a woman who can't remember what movie she went to the night before, but somehow Goat Song lingered somewhere in the back of her head for over 40 years. Wow.

I think it's kind of like when you see a movie when you're a kid and then again as an adult and suddenly everything makes sense. There are few events more satisfying than, "Ohhh, so that's what that meant!"

Kudos, Castle. Kudos.