What are you going to be watching this Fall? Now that we have hundreds of channels to choose from, we're having some trouble trying to decide just how to spend our daily four hours in front of the television. The newest issue of "Entertainment Weekly" promises to tell me about ninety-two different choices we will have come mid-September or so. Hundreds of channels. Dozens of new shows. Even if I exceeded my national average of hours watching the tube, I don't think that I could squeeze in all the quality programming that the major and minor networks would have me see.
But what would I be missing? I watched a few minutes of the two-hour premiere of the redux of "Beverly Hills 90210." I will allow that this may not have been my proudest moment, but I found myself drawn to watch anything other than Olympics and Convention. There was some mild comfort in seeing what amounted to familiar faces, or at least familiar situations. Then I recognized my folly and passed the remote control to my wife, who calmly took charge of the situation. I rolled over and went to sleep.
How I miss Premiere Week. With all the special events and the writer's strike, some of my favorite shows won't return until early next year. "Must See TV" as become "Must Wait TV." Still, I expect that, through the magic of digital video recording and living in a home with four (one for the dog) TV sets, we will all be caught up on what we need to watch and when. Just in time for the Spring TV Preview.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Juno, Alaska
"I mean, I'm already pregnant, so what other kind of shenanigans could I get into?"
How about getting mixed up in all the colorful hijinks that surround a presidential election? I have spent the last few days puzzling over the timing of the revelation of Bristol Palin's pregnancy. I have had a great many discussions with a number of different people and all of them end in decidedly different ways. When did mom find out, and when did she tell "Big Daddy" McCain? None of the answers seem to affect the overall reek of hypocrisy.
I agree with Barack Obama at one level when he says, "I think people's families are off-limits, and people's children are especially off-limits. This shouldn't be part of our politics. It has no relevance to Governor Palin's performance as governor or her potential performance as a vice president." On another level, I wonder what this says about the decision-making abilities of John McCain. If he had known about the impending bundle of joy in advance, would he have made a different choice for his running mate? An advisor, who refused to be named, insisted "Senator McCain knew this and felt in no way did it disqualify her from being vice president. Families have difficulties sometimes and lucky for her she has a supportive family."
Again, I agree. But what about all this preaching of abstinence, and cutting funding for for an Alaskan state program benefiting teen mothers in need of a place to live. What about all the teen mothers who aren't lucky enough to have a supportive family who just happen to be running for vice president? So many questions, so few answers. Time will tell. Until then, we can keep ourselves busy fuming over Sarah Palin's vision of God's Will, which includes sending U.S. troops to fight in Iraq and completing a pipeline to bring North Slope natural gas to North American markets.
I guess it's all in the benevolent tentacles of the Flying Spaghetti Monster now, anyway.
How about getting mixed up in all the colorful hijinks that surround a presidential election? I have spent the last few days puzzling over the timing of the revelation of Bristol Palin's pregnancy. I have had a great many discussions with a number of different people and all of them end in decidedly different ways. When did mom find out, and when did she tell "Big Daddy" McCain? None of the answers seem to affect the overall reek of hypocrisy.
I agree with Barack Obama at one level when he says, "I think people's families are off-limits, and people's children are especially off-limits. This shouldn't be part of our politics. It has no relevance to Governor Palin's performance as governor or her potential performance as a vice president." On another level, I wonder what this says about the decision-making abilities of John McCain. If he had known about the impending bundle of joy in advance, would he have made a different choice for his running mate? An advisor, who refused to be named, insisted "Senator McCain knew this and felt in no way did it disqualify her from being vice president. Families have difficulties sometimes and lucky for her she has a supportive family."
Again, I agree. But what about all this preaching of abstinence, and cutting funding for for an Alaskan state program benefiting teen mothers in need of a place to live. What about all the teen mothers who aren't lucky enough to have a supportive family who just happen to be running for vice president? So many questions, so few answers. Time will tell. Until then, we can keep ourselves busy fuming over Sarah Palin's vision of God's Will, which includes sending U.S. troops to fight in Iraq and completing a pipeline to bring North Slope natural gas to North American markets.
I guess it's all in the benevolent tentacles of the Flying Spaghetti Monster now, anyway.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
When You're Hot, You're Hot
There are lots of reasons to miss Jerry Reed. The man was a great songwriter. He told stories like "Amos Moses": "Well, Amos Moses was a Cajun. He lived by himself in the swamp. He hunted alligator for a livin'. Just knock 'em in the head with a stump. The Louisiana law gonna get you, Amos! It ain't legal huntin' alligator down in the swamp, boy!" I guess I don't have to tell you that anybody who would mess with ol' Amos is lookin' for a heap o' trouble.
He was also quite the thespian. He understood his limitations as an actor, telling an interviewer "When people ask me what my motivation is, I have a simple answer: money." Even so, he managed to appear in more than twenty different films and TV shows over a thirty year career, and contributed to nearly as many soundtracks along the way. And this is how I will choose to remember Jerry Reed.
I was introduced to Jerry by my older brother, via Burt Reynolds. He was a big fan of one of Jerry's first films: "W.W. And The Dixie Dance Kings." I understood that Burt was the star, but there was something about that second banana thing that really made me appreciate the laid-back twang of his good buddy Jerry. This friendship was on full display in the first two "Smokey and the Bandit" movies, but Cledus "Snowman" Snow isn't the role I will remember best. That distinction lies squarely on Bama McCall.
In the summer of 1976, Burt Reynolds' directorial debut and the sequel of sorts to his 1973 film "White Lightning," was playing up the road at our local drive in. My older brother took me to see "Gator," squeezed into the back of his Toyota pickup along with several other friends of ours and enough lawn chairs and bean bags for us all to take up two or three stalls. I have a fond memory of Lauren Hutton's brief nudity, and Burt's sweaty tough-guy, but it was Jerry Reed's Bama McCall that stole the show. This was a guy who was every bit as nasty as the characters in his songs. Bama would just as soon pat you on the back as empty both barrels of his sawed-off shotgun into your gut. He was a very bad man.
And Jerry Reed was a very nice man. That's why they call it acting, I suppose.
He was also quite the thespian. He understood his limitations as an actor, telling an interviewer "When people ask me what my motivation is, I have a simple answer: money." Even so, he managed to appear in more than twenty different films and TV shows over a thirty year career, and contributed to nearly as many soundtracks along the way. And this is how I will choose to remember Jerry Reed.
I was introduced to Jerry by my older brother, via Burt Reynolds. He was a big fan of one of Jerry's first films: "W.W. And The Dixie Dance Kings." I understood that Burt was the star, but there was something about that second banana thing that really made me appreciate the laid-back twang of his good buddy Jerry. This friendship was on full display in the first two "Smokey and the Bandit" movies, but Cledus "Snowman" Snow isn't the role I will remember best. That distinction lies squarely on Bama McCall.
In the summer of 1976, Burt Reynolds' directorial debut and the sequel of sorts to his 1973 film "White Lightning," was playing up the road at our local drive in. My older brother took me to see "Gator," squeezed into the back of his Toyota pickup along with several other friends of ours and enough lawn chairs and bean bags for us all to take up two or three stalls. I have a fond memory of Lauren Hutton's brief nudity, and Burt's sweaty tough-guy, but it was Jerry Reed's Bama McCall that stole the show. This was a guy who was every bit as nasty as the characters in his songs. Bama would just as soon pat you on the back as empty both barrels of his sawed-off shotgun into your gut. He was a very bad man.
And Jerry Reed was a very nice man. That's why they call it acting, I suppose.
Monday, September 01, 2008
In Harm's Way
A good friend and constant reader of this blog called just a little while ago, concerned for the safety and well-being of Geraldo Rivera. It seems that Jerry (to his closest associates) was standing on top of a levee, apparently unclear on the concept of what evacuation in advance of an oncoming hurricane means. Perhaps he had lucked on to some new information as to the whereabouts of Al Capone's vaults, or maybe he was busy sketching classified storm movements in the mud. Whatever the reason, there he was in all his wind and rain-swept glory reporting so that we could decide.
I have made my decision. He's a twit. And he's not alone. In spite of the fact that nearly two million people have left the Gulf Coast area in anticipation of the advancing storm, thousands more have streamed in, bringing their satellite trucks and crews. We are now being treated with 'round the clock coverage of impending doom. So far, the reporters and all their foul weather gear have been let down by Gustav. You can almost hear the disappointment in their voices as they tell us that the storm has been downgraded to Category One, and only one storm-related death, involving a woman killed in a car wreck, was reported in Louisiana. What a waste of good Gore-Tex.
I changed the channel to watch the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon. I wanted to see if Jerry was packing heat. Now that would be news.
I have made my decision. He's a twit. And he's not alone. In spite of the fact that nearly two million people have left the Gulf Coast area in anticipation of the advancing storm, thousands more have streamed in, bringing their satellite trucks and crews. We are now being treated with 'round the clock coverage of impending doom. So far, the reporters and all their foul weather gear have been let down by Gustav. You can almost hear the disappointment in their voices as they tell us that the storm has been downgraded to Category One, and only one storm-related death, involving a woman killed in a car wreck, was reported in Louisiana. What a waste of good Gore-Tex.
I changed the channel to watch the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon. I wanted to see if Jerry was packing heat. Now that would be news.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Well Worn
Yesterday morning I came home and unburdened myself. I filled two shopping bags with old T-shirts, and when I was done, I still had five drawers full. If I started wearing a different shirt each day and then simply discarding them it would take me several months before I had nothing left to wear.
Then why didn't I get rid of more of them? I have an absurd attachment to simple things. I have a history of being a bit of a pack rat that was mediated, in large part, by moving to California just after my thirtieth birthday. A great portion of my youth was boxed up and hauled across the country, but an even larger portion met with the dumpster. I was fortunate to have another smaller fraction of my stuff end up in storage at my mother's house, but when she moved into a smaller place, even the Twinkie I had been saving in her refrigerator as part of an elaborate experiment finally got tossed.
But when I got to Oakland, I still had Hefty bags full of T-shirts. Some of them no longer fit me, but I had a story that went with every one. Many of them came from concerts I had attended in various states of awareness, and were my most solid links with those experiences, since my own memory was not quite as reliable as the Hanes Beefy T that I managed to drag home with me. One in particular, a souvenir from the J. Geils "Freeze Frame" tour, has been lost to the ages. It was significant primarily because it helped me stay focused on the fact that I was attending a rock show with other humans even though at times my mind and the chemicals I had ingested had me watching "Macbeth" in a sea of swirling lights. That shirt was my link to reality. The fact that it has gone missing tells me that either I have lost that connection for good, or I no longer need it. The irony of that particular shirt is this: I never once wore it.
All of the others were well-worn. Some more than others. I still have a few very tired shirts that probably should have been let go. One in particular is a shirt I liberated, with the help of my older brother, from the dumpster behind the field house at the University of Colorado. It was used when I got it, and I've been running in it for more than twenty years. The fact that it has held together after weekly washings and other abuse is a tribute to its maker, who I can only guess at since the label has long since been worn away. A few of the shirts that were in line to be purged were rescued by my son. It will be a few more years before they fit him properly, but by then I should be able to part with a few dozen more.
Then why didn't I get rid of more of them? I have an absurd attachment to simple things. I have a history of being a bit of a pack rat that was mediated, in large part, by moving to California just after my thirtieth birthday. A great portion of my youth was boxed up and hauled across the country, but an even larger portion met with the dumpster. I was fortunate to have another smaller fraction of my stuff end up in storage at my mother's house, but when she moved into a smaller place, even the Twinkie I had been saving in her refrigerator as part of an elaborate experiment finally got tossed.
But when I got to Oakland, I still had Hefty bags full of T-shirts. Some of them no longer fit me, but I had a story that went with every one. Many of them came from concerts I had attended in various states of awareness, and were my most solid links with those experiences, since my own memory was not quite as reliable as the Hanes Beefy T that I managed to drag home with me. One in particular, a souvenir from the J. Geils "Freeze Frame" tour, has been lost to the ages. It was significant primarily because it helped me stay focused on the fact that I was attending a rock show with other humans even though at times my mind and the chemicals I had ingested had me watching "Macbeth" in a sea of swirling lights. That shirt was my link to reality. The fact that it has gone missing tells me that either I have lost that connection for good, or I no longer need it. The irony of that particular shirt is this: I never once wore it.
All of the others were well-worn. Some more than others. I still have a few very tired shirts that probably should have been let go. One in particular is a shirt I liberated, with the help of my older brother, from the dumpster behind the field house at the University of Colorado. It was used when I got it, and I've been running in it for more than twenty years. The fact that it has held together after weekly washings and other abuse is a tribute to its maker, who I can only guess at since the label has long since been worn away. A few of the shirts that were in line to be purged were rescued by my son. It will be a few more years before they fit him properly, but by then I should be able to part with a few dozen more.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Pray For Morning
When I was a kid, before I went to sleep, I used to say this:
"Now I lay me down to sleep"
That part's easy. It's bed time and it is time to close our eyes. Then came the another pretty simple bit:
"I pray the Lord my soul to keep"
Nice rhyme. Nice sentiment. It's comforting, but it is also a setup for the next line:
"If I should die before I wake"
Oh please, I'm nine years old. Now the door is about to close. The curtain is about to come down. Maybe not today, but maybe in the middle of the night the Grim Reaper will creep in, toss the covers back, snatch me up and carry me off into the night. So here comes the consolation:
"I pray the Lord my soul to take"
There's the Lord again, taking possession of my soul. Thanks, Lord. But I really hope it doesn't come to that. I'm kind of looking forward to recess tomorrow. That's why we always finished off with:
"God bless me, mom, dad, Doug, Dan, Rupert, Jack, and everybody in the whole world, Amen."
I like the fact that I began my list with myself. I included my family and my pets. And everybody in the whole world. Even the bad people. Because you never know when you're going to need that sort of assurance. Especially if you die in your sleep. Nighty night.
"Now I lay me down to sleep"
That part's easy. It's bed time and it is time to close our eyes. Then came the another pretty simple bit:
"I pray the Lord my soul to keep"
Nice rhyme. Nice sentiment. It's comforting, but it is also a setup for the next line:
"If I should die before I wake"
Oh please, I'm nine years old. Now the door is about to close. The curtain is about to come down. Maybe not today, but maybe in the middle of the night the Grim Reaper will creep in, toss the covers back, snatch me up and carry me off into the night. So here comes the consolation:
"I pray the Lord my soul to take"
There's the Lord again, taking possession of my soul. Thanks, Lord. But I really hope it doesn't come to that. I'm kind of looking forward to recess tomorrow. That's why we always finished off with:
"God bless me, mom, dad, Doug, Dan, Rupert, Jack, and everybody in the whole world, Amen."
I like the fact that I began my list with myself. I included my family and my pets. And everybody in the whole world. Even the bad people. Because you never know when you're going to need that sort of assurance. Especially if you die in your sleep. Nighty night.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Raise Your Hand If You're Undecided, Or Don't...
My first take on the McCain announcement of his running mate, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin, was this: He can save millions on the federal budget since he will only have to pay her half as much as a man. And then the rest of the stories start filtering through. Palin describes herself as pro-life and against same-sex marriage, although she claims to have good friends who are gay. She supports the teaching of creationism in public schools, alongside evolution and is also a lifelong member of the National Rifle Association. Not that all of these things really paint an accurate portrait of this woman of the wilderness.
John McCain has picked a woman and therefore trumped his opponent who could just as easily have done the same thing. It's a chess game, right? Obama went with age and experience, so McCain did just the opposite. Spin, parry, thrust. Got it. The whole thing just started to make me feel very tired today. Maybe it's hangover from the big rock show at Mile High (Invesco) Stadium, but I don't know how I will be able to listen to two more months of this hullabalo. Are there really that many people out there who need eight weeks to figure this one out? I confess that I have a hard time imagining that my choice would change if they stage any number of debates between presidential candidates, and I have a perverse interest in seeing Governor Palin discuss the finer points of foreign policy with Joe Biden.
But I don't get to make the rules. This campaign is years old now, and I suppose that I can just find something else to occupy my mind while I'm waiting for the polls to open. Thank God for football season.
John McCain has picked a woman and therefore trumped his opponent who could just as easily have done the same thing. It's a chess game, right? Obama went with age and experience, so McCain did just the opposite. Spin, parry, thrust. Got it. The whole thing just started to make me feel very tired today. Maybe it's hangover from the big rock show at Mile High (Invesco) Stadium, but I don't know how I will be able to listen to two more months of this hullabalo. Are there really that many people out there who need eight weeks to figure this one out? I confess that I have a hard time imagining that my choice would change if they stage any number of debates between presidential candidates, and I have a perverse interest in seeing Governor Palin discuss the finer points of foreign policy with Joe Biden.
But I don't get to make the rules. This campaign is years old now, and I suppose that I can just find something else to occupy my mind while I'm waiting for the polls to open. Thank God for football season.
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