Perfect strangers

Maybe you're too young, dear reader. Rest assured: considering the average lifetime of Belgians, and ignoring the fact that we are among the even happier few - well fed and employed - that may last longer than average, Freds are bound soon to hit the mid of life; blondes, boats and bottles: here we come.

Silently creeping to old age has the advantage of making the statement 'in our days' more valid. Happily fitting that Statler and Waldorfian complaintive is this: earlier this week, I stumbled upon the first episode of the sitcom 'Perfect Strangers': Balki Bartokomous, professional (mind you) sheepherder (sic) from the Greek island of Mypos, pops up the very day Larry Appleton (can you say "cousin Larry" with your best Hellenic accent?) moved out of his busy parental household to live on his own in the town that's Frank Sinatra's kind and home of the Bulls. Corny? Yes, with a capital maize. Funny? Not up to "modern standards", perhaps, but certainly amusing in the splendid overacting of Bronson Pinchot. I particularly recall an episode where Balki gets hit in the head and thinks he's Elvis: "Who is this Balki Bartokomoose". Perhaps you had to have been there.

So what brought me to mention the show, apart from my virtual walking cane? Here's what: revisiting it made me ponder the setup of the series, and the marvellous applicability of the title in many of its interpretations. Two alleged family members that are repeatedly pictured as exactly what the title says (and I do not refer to the sexual interpretation): two people knowing absolutely nothing about each other and appearing to be as different as they come, are juxtaposed and blended. Especially Balki is presented as a weird dude, though Larry soon is proved to be the owner of quite a few quirks himself. Yet another way in which this odd couple are perfectly strange. Now the english phrase 'perfect strangers' in some uses has come to hold the promise of perfection: although this unknown person is, well, exceptionally unknown, the potential of being fit for you is there: this guy/gal could be the lid on your teapot (pardon the dutchism), or may turn out to (be) quite like you.

Thus it is with Freds! There were lives before Fred-ity, and even before the (westflemish little girl induced) meeting of Freds-to-be. At the time of the introductions, the spectator may have thought no different than me during the first episode: these guys are unalike. I mean: you have Freds with a strong mathematical background, while another is more philologically inclined. Some Freds keep (at least at the current age) their hair lengths near the boxer: short; the use of elastics for style control is not uncommon for another (admittedly, these can also be found near a boxer). There are Freds who actually own the house, and one who will always be a guest.

Then the borderline of differences becomes dashed or even dotted: academia, a sharp keyboard (pencils are so nineties), well (and certainly) wrought english sentences, the love for redneck Nelson M (or other variants of the game that is not to be addressed as one of chance) and verbal humor, an eagerness to debate philosophical issues and much more, unites us, as does, now, the shared name and blog. To quote Maxi Jazz: we come 1. This goes to the point that (disregarding occasional references to past events that were unique to each Fred's life and known to some if not all readers, and a handful of identifiable habits involving dashes, semicolons and comparisons like the aliens in the X-files: out there) it might become hard to distinguish the writing Fred of each individual post - can you? Surely, in some peoples' books we might by now be regarded as equally strange. Now, all we need is a theme song.

Perhaps it is as with beauty and even perfection - and you can mark that as a Fred-ism : strangeness is in the eye of the beholder.