Happy Valentine's Day.

DAVE CHAPPELLE
My wife and I watched Chappelle’s Show for the first time recently, and I found it to be just about the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. It’s “makes you think” funny, not “laugh ‘til you cry” funny like South Park, for instance.

I’m growing terribly weary, however, of seeing Chappelle being interviewed trying to explain his recent high-profile “breakdown.” Last night he was on the Actor’s Studio—which is strange, since he’s not really an actor—and while he made some valid points about stress in Hollywood making people do strange things, I nonetheless found his explanations and attitude wearisome. At one point Chappelle delivered a well-rehearsed diatribe against Hollywood, then kicked back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The audience stood and cheered; I rolled my eyes and wanted to gag.

I understand fully if Chappelle feels he was losing creative control of his television show. If the single show I saw is any indication of what he’s capable, the network would do well to leave him alone and let him do his thing. However, how many episodes of “Where are they now?” or “Behind the Music” need to be available before “artists” realize two facts of life about Hollywood: First, that everyone you encounter will try to screw you over, and second that you will be signed to a lucrative contract because they love your product, then they will do everything within their power to completely change that product.

For instance, as much as I rail against “According to Jim” starring Jim Belushi, I’m sure that the creative vision he had for the show was not the festering turd America is treated to each week. I’m sure he has to take a deep breath and steal a glance at his seven-figure paycheck for the week in order to summon the necessary courage to muddle through the week’s production. Last night while on the treadmill the person next to me watched “Two and a Half Men” (at full volume), and the weight I lost walking paled in comparison to how much weight I could have lost if I’d given in to my desire to vomit.

Chappelle is fortunate to have been offered such lucrative contract. He’s lucky that network executives have allowed him the creative freedom he’s been given. I’m afraid that Chappelle will have to swallow his pride and face the fact that the roomful of white men he referred to on the Actor’s Studio will continue to mess with the formula of his show. Yes, they will attempt to water it down, and yes in the name of courtesy—the courtesy of showing even a modicum of respect towards the people who are handing him tens of millions of dollars, and people who have been in the business considerably longer than he has—Chappelle will have to oblige. And still his show will remain one of the most cutting-edge programs available, and once his contract expires Chappelle will have resources at his disposal allowing him to produce the show he wants to produce, unfettered by the powers that be.

In the meantime, this whining multi-millionaire needs to stop complaining now, get the hell into the studio, and produce his show. We’re waiting.

COLUMN O’ THE WEEK
Dedicated to my lovely wife, whom I love very much.

Believe it or not, I’m a perfect husband. In theory. When my wife describes me to her friends they invariably respond “My God, you’re so lucky.” And that’s true insofar as I fit none of the typical male stereotypes, which should therefore translate to wedded bliss. As the saying goes, however, be careful what you wish for.

For instance, I do all the housework. Every woman’s dream, right? When we were dating, the fastidiousness of my apartment was a key reason my wife fell in love with me. Unfortunately I long ago crossed the line between neatness and a bona fide mental disorder. My wife discovered too late that my cleanliness is a manifestation of obsessive compulsive disorder; it represents the sole area in which I have control over my life. In all other respects I’m an absolute mess.

I possess a sense of humor which should make living with me a total scream, and it does. My wife frequently screams at me to “Stop making jokes, this is serious!” Humor is a deflection; a way to avoid confrontation. During arguments, rather than discuss issues like an adult, I lapse into Seinfeld mode: “Did you ever notice how when you’re angry, the vein on your forehead pulsates at the same tempo as ‘My Sharona’?” Not a good strategy.

I could also be considered a perfect husband because I’m emotional. I cry at movies. I cry if I see an animal dead on the road. I cry if I’m moody because it’s my time of the month. Seriously, I experience “phantom” PMS (Pansy Male Syndrome) during which I desperately need to be held. I’m more in touch with my own feminine side than I am with my wife’s, and there are times I’m sure she’d prefer I was an emotional rock rather than an emotional wreck.

More examples of my theoretical perfection: I shun—nay, despise—hunting and sports, staples of Minnesota male life. I don’t get together with the guys every Sunday and shout “Go Vikes!” at the hockey game on television, nor do I don blaze orange for weeks at a time returning home unshowered and unshaven, reeking of stale beer, with a dead animal in my vehicle. No, my wife gets to share each and every moment of her spare time with her neurotic, clingy husband, and each tick of the clock must bring to her mind visions of the pit and the pendulum.

My wife is perfect too—in theory—yet I still find things to nitpick about. I won’t recount them for fear of being labeled the Howard Stern of small town columnists, divulging every sordid detail of my personal life regardless of the consequences at home. Suffice it to say that countless things that went unnoticed or might even have been endearing while we were dating have, over time, developed into relationship-threatening issues.

Next to my computer there’s a photograph of my wife and I on our wedding day. It’s not one of those artsy photos where, for reasons known only to professional photographers, the subjects appear at best contemplative, at worst constipated. Rather, it’s a candid shot of us stealing a moment away from the hustle and bustle of the wedding, both of us in the throes of laughter, delighted to be in each other’s presence. On that day the quirks we find so annoying now went unnoticed or, perhaps more importantly, were simply unimportant.

Three years after that day, despite my growing list of shortcomings, she still adores me so much that she regularly and unflinchingly massages my sweaty feet after a 14 hour day of work and school. She sometimes surprises me at just the right time by stepping in and assuming housekeeping duties so I can focus on homework, or just collapse for a much-delayed respite. She bears the heavy burden of being the only person in the world in whom I confide that the middle-aged, bald shell of a man she’s married to is frightened to death that he’ll never find out what he wants to be when he grows up.

There are times I fear my wife will discover there’s someone better out there; a man who’s not just theoretically perfect, but truly perfect. And that’s the man I’m trying to become each and every day. I may not be perfect, but I hope I’m perfect for her.

Happy Valentine’s Day.