Among many, many other things I'm passionate about, TV series are near the top of my list. "Hill Street Blues" was an early favorite, along with "American Gothic;" the former was gritty and was full of Steven Bochco's signature linguistic fillips, the latter just plain spooky . . . not unlike the first season of "Twin Peaks."
I was a regular viewer of 2003's under-appreciated "Tru Calling," but that might have been because of the way Eliza Dushku bobbled beneath her red dress during the opening credits 8^).
There are others: 1961's "Way Out," hosted by Roald Dahl, which was a contemporaneous competitor of Rod Serling's "The Twilight Zone" (and which, as far as I'm concerned, was a bit more cerebral!) as well as the TV adaptation of "Alien Nation."
As you can probably tell my tastes run fairly heavily toward science fiction and the quirky. However, only two of my top three fall into that category.
#3: "The West Wing (Seasons 1-4)" - This show had everything going for it: Aaron Sorkin's writing (He'd previously written the screen plays for "A Few Good Men" and "The American President",) Thomas Schlamme's directing, and some of the best ensemble acting short of "M.A.S.H." What engaged me the most, I think, about the writing was Sorkin's habit of teasing the audience by refusing to spoon feed them relevant information and context. The word "thing" was employed as a pronoun in almost every episode, and it was left to the audience to figure out its anticedent. It was a show that required you to think and be aware. Of "things." You notice I rank only seasons 1-4 as being in the top three; that's because in season five, Sorkin was replaced by John Wells, who produced "ER," and took the show in more of a personal vs. process direction. Where Sorkin's pontificating was laced with the allusion and poetry of shaved truffles, Wells's attempts had more the consistency of overcooked risotto. It was a great show gone bad -- which, I'm afraid paralleled the direction the country was taking.
#2: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" - This show has made too many "Best of . . . " lists to count, and for good reason. Not only was the ensemble cast as good as any in the history of TV. Even the minor characters, or ones introduced relatively late in the series' run (Anya, the vengeance demon; Tara, Willow's lesbian lover; Dawn, Buffy's heretofore unknown sister; Faith, the rogue slayer) added so much to the story's mythology that after a while they seemed nothing less than inevitable.
The quality of the show was completely due to its visionary creator and writer/director of most of its best episodes, Joss Whedon . . .
Friday, July 18, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Whispering
Monday, July 7, would have been my Mother's 90th birthday . . . except she died in 2006. My daughter still refers to that date as "Grandy's birthday," and I never contradict her. She is 27, after all.
My mother and I were very close. In 1987, as a single parent of a six year old, juggling two jobs and a 45-minute commute each day, I was -- dare I admit? -- struggling. That year, my mother retired at 65 after working all her life at a variety of middle-class, white collar jobs, and was planning to move from San Diego to Florida, to be close to her brother. On her way, her '81 Maxima loaded down with those things she'd never trust to movers, she made a brief stopover at the house my daughter and I shared in Blue Diamond, Nev. The brief stopover lasted almost 25 years. She fell in love with her granddaughter, and all thoughts or retirement went flying out the window.
When I decided to move to Reno, in 2003, to get a Master's in journalism, my mother followed after a year or two. My daughter had moved here a few years previously and was just about to graduate from UNR with a BS in criminal justice.
I received my Master's in December 2005, but by then, my mother wasn't feeling well . . . she wasn't even able to watch me walk across the stage to receive my degree, but that was okay. She was old, after all, I thought, and fighting the crowds of equally proud and jubilant parents.would have been a strain on her.
After the first of the year, wishing to continue the idle-student routine, I moved back in with her even though I could have stayed where I was; I told myself that I was saving money and keeping my mother company,
The fact was, though, that she was keeping me company. Somehow, during the time she'd lived with me, she'd literally become my best friend. We'd discuss everything -- movies, current affairs, politics -- oh yes, politics -- and she was always interested in what I was up to. What I was doing. I don't think she was living vicariously through me or my daughter, though . . . She was genuinely interested.
In September my mother was diagnosed with leukemia -- unusual, but not unheard of in somebody of her age. I remember her asking, when the doctor gave us thediagnosis: "What about food? Do I have to change my diet?" She'd suffered from high blood pressure for almost as long as I could remember and had to monitor her salt intake pretty scrupulously. "Eat anything you want," the doctor said. "That when I knew it was serious," my mother told me later.
Somehow, I never thought my mother would really die, even when my daughter and I held her hand and watched the life drain from her then-ravaged body in the hospice two months later. Though tears streamed down my face and unaccustomed sobs jarred my body like seismic events, it still didn't hit me.
It wasn't until shortly after her cremation and interment that the finality of her death came to me. I'd find myself doing something or correcting something or achieving something my mother and I had not see eye-to-eye on, and I'd want to call her to proudly advise her that, yes, I'd finally done this or that. Or, to tell her I was right about something, or vice-versa, or to offer an apology, or to do something different. Ask her advice.
That's when I realized that in death, there are no do-overs. You can't take back that unfortunate move. You can't apologize and tell the person you'll never do something again. It's death.
I wish I were able to believe in an afterlife, where I could be reunited with old friends, old acquaintances, relatives . . . my mother; those who have passed away.
I've started attending church. I'm still a disbeliever--although I seem to be leaning toward the "deist" side of the faith chasm these days. I don't attend because I'm curious, or because I'm comparing costs and benefits (as if religions were like items on Walmart shelves.) I go for two reasons: First, the moment I enter the Episcopal or Catholic or Newman church, I kneel and whisper a prayer to my mother or to God or to whoever might be "listening." I'm not going to share what these whisperings consist of, they're too personal, but I'm sure they're not too different from what millions of others say under similar circumstances every day..
I also attend because it provides the structure to my life that my mother's death voided. And, because of the possibility that someday, unexpectedly, lightening may strike.
My mother and I were very close. In 1987, as a single parent of a six year old, juggling two jobs and a 45-minute commute each day, I was -- dare I admit? -- struggling. That year, my mother retired at 65 after working all her life at a variety of middle-class, white collar jobs, and was planning to move from San Diego to Florida, to be close to her brother. On her way, her '81 Maxima loaded down with those things she'd never trust to movers, she made a brief stopover at the house my daughter and I shared in Blue Diamond, Nev. The brief stopover lasted almost 25 years. She fell in love with her granddaughter, and all thoughts or retirement went flying out the window.
When I decided to move to Reno, in 2003, to get a Master's in journalism, my mother followed after a year or two. My daughter had moved here a few years previously and was just about to graduate from UNR with a BS in criminal justice.
I received my Master's in December 2005, but by then, my mother wasn't feeling well . . . she wasn't even able to watch me walk across the stage to receive my degree, but that was okay. She was old, after all, I thought, and fighting the crowds of equally proud and jubilant parents.would have been a strain on her.
After the first of the year, wishing to continue the idle-student routine, I moved back in with her even though I could have stayed where I was; I told myself that I was saving money and keeping my mother company,
The fact was, though, that she was keeping me company. Somehow, during the time she'd lived with me, she'd literally become my best friend. We'd discuss everything -- movies, current affairs, politics -- oh yes, politics -- and she was always interested in what I was up to. What I was doing. I don't think she was living vicariously through me or my daughter, though . . . She was genuinely interested.
In September my mother was diagnosed with leukemia -- unusual, but not unheard of in somebody of her age. I remember her asking, when the doctor gave us thediagnosis: "What about food? Do I have to change my diet?" She'd suffered from high blood pressure for almost as long as I could remember and had to monitor her salt intake pretty scrupulously. "Eat anything you want," the doctor said. "That when I knew it was serious," my mother told me later.
Somehow, I never thought my mother would really die, even when my daughter and I held her hand and watched the life drain from her then-ravaged body in the hospice two months later. Though tears streamed down my face and unaccustomed sobs jarred my body like seismic events, it still didn't hit me.
It wasn't until shortly after her cremation and interment that the finality of her death came to me. I'd find myself doing something or correcting something or achieving something my mother and I had not see eye-to-eye on, and I'd want to call her to proudly advise her that, yes, I'd finally done this or that. Or, to tell her I was right about something, or vice-versa, or to offer an apology, or to do something different. Ask her advice.
That's when I realized that in death, there are no do-overs. You can't take back that unfortunate move. You can't apologize and tell the person you'll never do something again. It's death.
I wish I were able to believe in an afterlife, where I could be reunited with old friends, old acquaintances, relatives . . . my mother; those who have passed away.
I've started attending church. I'm still a disbeliever--although I seem to be leaning toward the "deist" side of the faith chasm these days. I don't attend because I'm curious, or because I'm comparing costs and benefits (as if religions were like items on Walmart shelves.) I go for two reasons: First, the moment I enter the Episcopal or Catholic or Newman church, I kneel and whisper a prayer to my mother or to God or to whoever might be "listening." I'm not going to share what these whisperings consist of, they're too personal, but I'm sure they're not too different from what millions of others say under similar circumstances every day..
I also attend because it provides the structure to my life that my mother's death voided. And, because of the possibility that someday, unexpectedly, lightening may strike.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Legend
Shortly after departing this vale of tears, courtesy of a coronary thrombosis, Prof. Herb Tillman found himself at the entrance to Celestial University, to no great surprise. Nor, did the appearance of what could only be an angel—six-feet tall, with white shoulder-length hair and full beard and wings that exceeded his height by at least a foot—cause him the slightest consternation. It must be admitted, though, that he found the being’s nametag—“Hi, I’m Aristotle—the slightest bit disconcerting at first, but he got over it quickly enough. He was, after all, dead.
“Welcome to Heaven,” the angel said.
“Er, thanks,” Herb replied. “Say, are you really Aristotle? The Greek philosopher?” he asked.
“The one and only,” he replied. “And, call me ‘Ari’.
“Now, since it’s your first day in heaven, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions. Newbies always do. So, here are the basics: First: yes, you’re in heaven. You made it through the elimination rounds, so eternal bliss is forever yours. Got that?
“Next, it’s highly unlikely that you’ll meet the Big Guy for at least a few millennia; He’s too busy running the myriad universes to do the meet-and-greet thing with every new arrival. That goes for The Kid, too, and Mom, and the Prophets, etc. etc. etc.
“Those are the nuts-and-bolts; you’ll pick up the rest as you go along. Now, before I turn you over to your First Sponsor, do you have anything that’s really pressing that you want you know about?”
No matter what else could have been said about Herb Tillman (at least while he was alive) nobody would have described him as timid or shy. Although a mediocre scholar, he had worked his diligent and arduous way up the academic food-chain until he had attained the office of Shakespeare Institute chair at one of New England’s most prestigious institutions of higher learning.
Thus, when Ari made his offer, Herb was ready. “Well, there is one thing I’ve wondered about all my life. It’s about the Bard: who was he really, who wrote Shakespeare’s plays? Was it Sir Francis Bacon? Was it the Earl of Oxford? Was it the Earl of Darby? I’ve always held out for Christopher Marlow.
“It’s been bugging me ever since I was an undergraduate. I’ve published reams of research papers, argued in dozens of journals. In fact, if I remember correctly I was debating the dean of English Lit. when I had my, hmmm, little accident. So, you might even say that it killed me.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?” Ari asked. “Oh, never mind. It’s not as if you’re the first academic to ‘need’ the answer to that question. About a third of you guys do. So, come with me. Just promise you won’t be too disappointed at the answer.”
Following his enigmatic statement, Ari waved his hands and the huge Celestial University doors opened wide. Herb had to rush to keep up with Ari’s six-foot strides; he was a little guy.
After walking through a hallway studded on both sides with innumerable identical doors (this was Heaven, after all), they came to one that was set off by itself. Ari put a finger to his lips, saying, “Shhh. This is the room where all of Shakespeare’s works are written. I’ll let you see who’s writing currently, but you’ll have to be quiet. We mustn’t disturb.”
“Do you mean Shakespeare’s still writing?”
Ari rolled his eyes. “No, you dunce. All the Shakespeare in your universe has already been written and published. This is for other universes.”
“It’s still the Bard, though, isn’t it? The same author?”
“Yes,” Ari replied. “The very same.”
“Then, I want to see. I have to know if I was right about Marlow, or if it really was Bacon or one of the others. I have to know for sure the identity of the genius who created Earth’s greatest body of literature.”
“And, you will now get your wish,” Ari said, as he swung open the door.
Prof. Tillman stood motionless, struck with awe as his lifelong wish was finally answered. He turned his head toward Aristotle as if to comment, but his words were drowned out by the cacophony of clack-clack-clacking that emerged from the room, like a tsunami of sound. Also, the intensity of the stench that accompanied the noise was made opening his mouth an unattractive option.
Tillman never would have guessed the true authorship of the plays, not in a million years. It wasn’t Marlow or Bacon or any of the other pretenders. Nor, was it even Shakespeare, himself. He found himself wishing he had paid more attention to his Statistics 101 professor.
As the enormity of his discovery swept over him, he recognized the absurdity of the quest to which he had devoted his life. He found satisfaction in knowing that he hadn’t been the only scholar to have sought the same answer. His lips curved upward as his attention was drawn to one of the (multiple) authors of Macbeth, Lear, Othello, and the Sonnets.
This particular author had ceased its endless pounding on one of the infinite number of typewriters in the room and was none-too-hygienically picking at a tiny insect burrowed deep within its fur. It examined the offending mite for a moment, then placed it in its mouth, and began chewing. Then, it returned to its typing.
As Prof. Tillman looked out over the vista, at the vast ocean of chimps diligently beating at an infinite number of typewriters, his grin burst forth into a peal of raucous self-mocking laughter that could be heard throughout every corner of Heaven, and which (and, truth be told) even brought a tiny smile to the Big Guy’s Face.
“Well, I’ll be dam . . . er, darned,” he thought (no sense taking chances at this stage of the game). “It was all infinite monkeys. Everything was written by infinite monkeys.”
Scribblers' Dilemma (or, veal couplets)
Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste . . . I've been around for long, long years . . .
Well, two out of three ain't bad.
---
I am (for all practical purposes) version 2.0 of Roger, embarking on the second half of his life. Make of that what you will. Woof.
---
I write, read, think, create. I have an I.Q. of 147, which puts me a full percentile over the Mensa line, which means that I'm a chimp with superior verbal skills.
---
"Dance like there's no one watching." I read that once, on the wall of a Jimmy John's Sandwich Shop, and later heard it attributed to Mark Twain. I've gotta look that up.
---
The foolowing [sic] is mine, though:
Paper and pixels, pencils and pen,
Reminding us always of who, what, and when.
Always the where, sometimes the why,
Sometimes to laugh, sometimes to cry.
The journalist details a kiss or a tiff;
But the scribble--the scribbler--s/he answers, "What if . . . "
It isn't just stanzas, lined up in rows.
Obedient soldiers, aligned toe-to-toe.
"I'll give you syntax!" s/he bellows in rage,
"Attribution be damned! It isn't your page!"
Now the point-of-view shifts, w'out reason nor rhyme,
For the journalist scribbler, at last has its time:
"You psycho-pathetic fools," s/he decries,
"Gnawing on plots like pigs in a sty.
"Worrying marrow, tendons, and fat,
"To find just the right word--How obsessive is that?"
"Grammar's for sissies, spell check's for asses,
"I have but an hour to write for my classes.
"Now, where in the f*** did I put my glasses?"
"Professor won't notice, he's overworked, tired.
"He's reading each week, keep it up and he's fired."
"Tomorrow, it's Vegas, next day it's Frisco.
"Keeping things straight 'board the old Red Eye Disco."
But this is 'bout me, not some silly classes.
These workshops are bull****, the students all asses."
Who struggle obsessively o'er verb tense and noun,
Sensitive always to a workshop-mate's frown.
Like Pollack before me, I drip prose on a page.
No one can auger the crud I display.
Ah ha! Here's my grade, I wonder what it . . .
No! this can't be right! My Mom's gonna s***!
---
Have you ever noticed that whenever somebody begins a sentence with, "I'm one of those people who are very frank and honest . . . ," or, "I believe in telling it like it is . . . ,"or the equivalent, whatever follows is unlikely to be either frank or honest, or anything of that ilk. Nasty or vicious is more likely. Frankness and honesty have little to do with the speaker's motivations: whatever follows is meant solely to maim.
---
I carry always a Number 3 pencil, not for me the tyranny of templates and stencils,
To write in my journal; with a sturdy eraser, to expunge the many mistakes that grace her pages.
A Number three trumps a one or a two:
It neither smudges nor smears, leaving this poor, woebegone scribbler in tears.
---
You can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish.
You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose; but you can't pick your friend's nose.
BlogCatalog.com
Well, two out of three ain't bad.
---
I am (for all practical purposes) version 2.0 of Roger, embarking on the second half of his life. Make of that what you will. Woof.
---
I write, read, think, create. I have an I.Q. of 147, which puts me a full percentile over the Mensa line, which means that I'm a chimp with superior verbal skills.
---
"Dance like there's no one watching." I read that once, on the wall of a Jimmy John's Sandwich Shop, and later heard it attributed to Mark Twain. I've gotta look that up.
---
The foolowing [sic] is mine, though:
Paper and pixels, pencils and pen,
Reminding us always of who, what, and when.
Always the where, sometimes the why,
Sometimes to laugh, sometimes to cry.
The journalist details a kiss or a tiff;
But the scribble--the scribbler--s/he answers, "What if . . . "
It isn't just stanzas, lined up in rows.
Obedient soldiers, aligned toe-to-toe.
"I'll give you syntax!" s/he bellows in rage,
"Attribution be damned! It isn't your page!"
Now the point-of-view shifts, w'out reason nor rhyme,
For the journalist scribbler, at last has its time:
"You psycho-pathetic fools," s/he decries,
"Gnawing on plots like pigs in a sty.
"Worrying marrow, tendons, and fat,
"To find just the right word--How obsessive is that?"
"Grammar's for sissies, spell check's for asses,
"I have but an hour to write for my classes.
"Now, where in the f*** did I put my glasses?"
"Professor won't notice, he's overworked, tired.
"He's reading each week, keep it up and he's fired."
"Tomorrow, it's Vegas, next day it's Frisco.
"Keeping things straight 'board the old Red Eye Disco."
But this is 'bout me, not some silly classes.
These workshops are bull****, the students all asses."
Who struggle obsessively o'er verb tense and noun,
Sensitive always to a workshop-mate's frown.
Like Pollack before me, I drip prose on a page.
No one can auger the crud I display.
Ah ha! Here's my grade, I wonder what it . . .
No! this can't be right! My Mom's gonna s***!
---
Have you ever noticed that whenever somebody begins a sentence with, "I'm one of those people who are very frank and honest . . . ," or, "I believe in telling it like it is . . . ,"or the equivalent, whatever follows is unlikely to be either frank or honest, or anything of that ilk. Nasty or vicious is more likely. Frankness and honesty have little to do with the speaker's motivations: whatever follows is meant solely to maim.
---
I carry always a Number 3 pencil, not for me the tyranny of templates and stencils,
To write in my journal; with a sturdy eraser, to expunge the many mistakes that grace her pages.
A Number three trumps a one or a two:
It neither smudges nor smears, leaving this poor, woebegone scribbler in tears.
---
You can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish.
You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose; but you can't pick your friend's nose.
BlogCatalog.com
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