A Blog Post About Nothing

I'll be frank.

As a sometime fan of popular culture, it's a real black eye for me that, as of a year and a half ago, I had seen only the occasional rerun of Seinfeld on late night TV. I always enjoyed the show when it was on, though it always seemed as though I only half-understood and could only half-laugh at it, like I was on the outside of some huge decade-long inside joke.

But then came the woman that changed my life, in oh so many ways. She took me to Ecuador, then Mexico, but most of all, she led me to this wonderful show about nothing, a show that had been staring me in the face for most of my life. Before we moved to Ecuador, we downloaded seasons six and seven and watched them, over and over and over - watched them to death, really, or what surely would be death for any other series.

It's a little pathetic, I realize, that having steady access to the internet was one of the major pluses of us coming here to Mexico, and even a little more pathetic that being able to watch the remaining seven seasons of the show was one of the major pluses of having steady access to the internet. Seinfeld was our refuge after a long day of work, a distraction from the stress, our release from the complaints of a bunch of childish college kids. The irony, of course, is that the entire show is comprised of the complaints of four childish thirtysomethings.

In a very real way, the world makes more sense now: "No soup for you!", "Yada yada yada," low talkers, sidlers, high talkers, shrinkage, the puffy shirt, cigar store Indians, Bosco, Jon Voight, the Bro, man hands, jimmy legs, Festivus, "Hello . . . Newman," "Hellooooooo! La la la," the urban sombrero. I'm sure I've encountered thousands of references to Seinfeld up until the past few months, but I'm determined never to miss one again.

The show is so funny, it almost makes me wish for a life of meaningless relationships, wisecracks, superficiality, and pettiness. Almost.