SKEWED VIEWS ON YEAR-END VIEWING

 I think Bill Clinton was still president the last time I ventured forth on New Year's Eve, so the TV marathon tradition that accompanies this holiday is important to me. This year there are 63 of them, depending on your level of service, and most can be ignored. I say this with little or no compunction because – when considering the crap to noncrap ratio -- I firmly believe Theodore Sturgeon’s famous pronouncement was an understatement.

My personal favorite is still the SyFy Twilight Zone marathon. This happens every year, and might be the one thing SyFy has retained from the original Science Fiction Network. I enjoy it for many reasons. I have a list:

1. Someone has observed that tradition is anything that happened to a baby boomer twice. When I hear this, I wince and applaud simultaneously, which is not attractive. Try it. Anyway, I watched The Twilight Zone when I was a kid. In fact, this show helped define the topography of my brain. The black and white imagery of the original broadcasts are burned into my cerebral cortex as indelibly as the opening scene of A Hard Day's Night and the final shot of The Seventh Seal.  
2. The Twilight Zone scripts represent the best televised work of Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury and Rod Serling. These are among the best half-hour teleplays ever written -- clever, incisive and, in a few cases, subversive.
3. Considering the age, intellect and temperament of many SyFy viewers, this tradition can be puzzlement (OMG! Why are they running these old shows AGAIN?) And, for me, that delightful side effect is the cherry on this sundae.

To be avoided at all costs: The Sopranos marathon on A&E. I would never watch The Sopranos on A&E. This is a sanitized, truncated and laughable mockery of the real thing. You want to watch The Sopranos? Rent it, stream it or borrow it. Or, continue allowing the quirky predilections of network censors to define your limitations. Your choice.

This weekend also presents a good opportunity to catch up on two notable AMC programs. The Walking Dead and Hell on Wheels. If you haven’t seen these shows, you will know before the end of one episode if your particular cup of tea is represented. If not, move along. But try to avoid watching feature films on AMC. (See previous paragraph.)

The idea of a New Year's Eve Law and Order marathon is mind-boggling. I have always enjoyed the Law and Order franchise, but they already have a marathon. It's called basic cable.

As for the majority of this annual televised wasteland, I have nothing to offer. Apparently, someone with considerable influence has declared that not very good and good enough are the same thing. Happy New Year.

TIME-TRIPPING ON BURNET ROAD

Yesterday, I found myself standing in front of the Exxon Tiger Mart I visited every Thursday morning for more years than I can accurately tabulate. Back then, this store was my first opportunity, on the short walk to what was then my job, to take a critical look at the latest edition of the weekly FREE TAKE ONE publication whose garish and abundant ad content I either created, processed or shepherded – also for more years than I can accurately tabulate. (A rough estimate would be fourteen.)

Those mornings were filled with trepidation and jitters – even before I added coffee. To people in the business, my plight might have been called lamentable. Even without the benefit of a proper press check, I was uncomfortably responsible for the visual integrity and typographical accuracy of the final product, printed in the dead of night in another part of the state. This responsibility, I quickly learned, included any mistakes made by myself or the artists and production people working with me, and any technical blowback generated by digital gremlins, and, most astonishingly, any misunderstandings created by the stunning ignorance of the management and the sales team with whom I collaborated all those years. With and without them, I’ve spent more than thirty years designing ads, and I understand that client naiveté can be overlooked and even corrected. But when the people in charge and the people in charge of selling don’t really understand the product, the job description of the production manager shifts from “managing production” to “choreographing ignorance.”  It was that vast and formidable ignorance, along with increasingly inept management -- and a flat-earth approach to the burgeoning digital revolution -- that ultimately killed the paper and cast me into financial purgatory.

That’s right. It’s all about me.

I entered the store yesterday morning to purchase a Nutrigrain bar. Not much had changed since my last visit. Clif Bars had been added to the selection, but, alas, not the elusive Maple Nut variety. More refrigerated shelf-space had been claimed by bottled water, as well as water in bottles and bottles filled with water. Paying for my peanut-buttery snack, I noticed that the cigarettes were now behind Plexiglas. Under the circumstances, the display resembled an exhibit from a bygone era.

On my way out, I veered down memory lane, and took a quick look at the collection of free publications by the door. This is where I once got a first look at my now-defunct paper and the weekly journey into relief or retribution would begin. Looking down, I expected to see The Greensheet and several automobile publications, I did not expect to see a familiar masthead that once represented a steady paycheck and contributed mightily to my first heart attack. But there it was. The stoic, pseudo-Lakota and the strip of patriotic ribbon. The Franklin Gothic Bold, expanded and further tortured with Typestyler gradation. Gagggh. I was certain I had slipped through a time warp. Holy crap. Am I late for work?

Yeah. About three years.

Euphoria clashed with steel-talon panic before quickly subsiding. It didn’t take long to spot the addition of an upstart QR code, as well as the name of a nearby town. A small town. A charming hamlet where, apparently, the Internet had not killed the printed classified ad and a daily newspaper had not sewn up all the display inches. You know. Mayberry. This was their little piece of the franchise, not mine. Mine was still dead. I picked up a copy of the familiar publication, and was suddenly and inescapably pot-committed to complete the morning ritual. (Pot-committed is not a drug term. But, you knew that.)

Paper in hand, it was time to head next door to Denny’s for cursory, furtive page inspection. Except … Denny’s is gone. Where once was Denny’s is now a bank. So, I walked to the recently truncated shopping mall behind the Tiger Mart and sat on a bench in front of The Guitar Center to study the ad-filled pages. There were 32 of them. A healthy paper, by today’s standards. Our largest paper was 72 pages. We hung at 60 for a short time, before slowly and steadily dwindling to our final 12-page edition. (Four of those pages actually given away.)

I had two reactions to this familiar visual experience. I thought, look at all this work. Hey!  I could use some of this work. And, I thought, look at this crap. I never want to do this crap again. I would rather be a barista or a Wal-Mart greeter … or the guy who picks up roadkill. I actually felt (and some damaged part of me savored) an old, toxic panic that once haunted my dreams. It was the panic that came every Tuesday afternoon when the sales staff began filling the top drawer of a filing cabinet in an adjoining room with the hastily-scribbled layouts and incoherent ad copy I had been waiting for since the previous Friday. Every time that drawer slammed (BLAM!) several minutes -- or several hours -- were added to my workday. (BLAM!) Tuesday could be a ten-hour day. (BLAM!) Or, it could be an eighteen-hour day. (BLAM!) It all depended on the whims of the client and the sales staff and their subsequent indulgence by an owner/manager, who enjoyed telling the production department they were nothing more than overhead. (BLAM!)

(BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!) 

All I sought during those late nights was clarity. Clarity and closure -- and an understanding that, under deadline, time is a dwindling commodity which only moves in one direction. We rarely celebrated cohesion. The goals of any sales staff and the goals of any production department are, by nature, discordant. So, compromise is often the only salvation. But, bless them, these folks generally held their ground like petulant children ... or Republican legislators. And, I'm glad I was finally able to bid them adieu.

I put the paper in the trash and walked to the nearest bus stop, noticing one thing that had not changed. After leafing through those inky pages, I really wanted to wash my hands.

PAPER, PLASTIC OR TAUNTAUN HIDE?

First of all, I’m probably greener than you -- partially by choice, partially by circumstance. Secondly, I don’t care how green you are. That’s your business.

I shop at Walgreens all the time. Several times a week, in fact -- and while I almost always carry reusable shopping bags to the grocery store, I rarely apply this convention to a trip to the drugstore. Call me evil. Call me irresponsible.

Last night, after a very long day, I stopped by Walgreens on the way home and purchased four items. After standing in line for several minutes and exchanging banal pleasantries with the young man behind the register, I paid for the items and waited for my bag. He thanked me, and started ringing up the next customer.

“Excuse me. Could I get a bag?”

The kid looked at me as if I had asked for free soup and a hooker. Then, he actually smirked. “Would you care to purchase a bag? We no longer carry plastic bags.”

My reply was a bit sarcastic. “Oh. You think they could have sent out a memo on that? How much is the bag?”

“Thirty-nine cents.”

“Fine.” I handed him two quarters, he handed me a small white bag and change. The bag had an odd, fibrous texture, sort of like Tauntaun hide. He immediately turned his attention back to the next customer. I bagged my own items and left.

I have no problem with the initiative behind this. I applaud it, in fact. But the attitude of this kid was insufferable. He was enjoying this process a little too much. He got to stand there, in his first crappy job ever, and piss off old people who expect plastic bags. Suddenly, he wasn’t a clerk -- he was an eco-warrior.

I shouldn’t have to explain this to anyone, but I need a bag. I need it to carry the stuff I just paid for as I walk home. I don’t drive a car these days. In fact, the last time I operated an internal combustion engine, Bush’s daddy was president. This sophomore probably drove his mother’s Escalade to work -- but he’s standing there saving the goddamn planet, and I’m just a clueless bastard with the temerity to expect the same landfill-congesting service I’ve received at that particular store for five years.

Like I said, I’m not perfect. Who is? Al Gore has a climate-controlled pool house.

I can adjust to almost anything, but I need a warning. When Whole Foods stopped offering plastic bags, they were smart enough to issue press releases and spend weeks explaining the policy change before it happened. And, because of this, it was a smooth transition, as opposed to a slap in the face.

I need laundry detergent this morning, and Walgreens is still the nearest store. I don't think I'll take the bag I purchased last night. Instead, I’ll take a plastic bag with a big red CVS logo on it. I’m sure I have one around here somewhere.

THE CONTRACT WITH DOGS

There is a street corner in Austin where I often linger at a bus stop all but obscured by shrubbery growing through a chain-link fence. The fence, like the house it surrounds, has seen better decades. This humble dwelling is interesting from a textural standpoint – with weathered wood and striated stone and a tilting stack of salmon-colored brick that was once a functioning chimney. This all looks remarkably old-world, surrounded by tufts of pine branch and drapes of moss. One could almost imagine Hansel and Gretel inside, gleefully basting a witch.

More often than not, there is a dog in the yard – a black and brown mutt who usually wanders over to help me wait for the bus. He stands and eventually sits beside me, on his side of the fence. I try to explain the bus schedule to the dog, which sets his internal pendulum in motion and causes him to inch closer, pushing the tip of his damp muzzle through the wire mesh. He sits patiently, looking up with doleful appraisal.

I always resist the temptation to pet the dog. This is an egregious omission on my part, considering our contract with dogs. Eons ago, when we were grunting savages in animal skins and dogs were still the scavenging camp wolves skittishly eating our leftovers, a sacred pact was struck. It was not a complicated bargain. The dogs would be our companions. They would warn us of approaching danger. Some of the more aggressive canines would protect us and work for us. And a few would even become unpaid spokesmodels. All we had to do in return was continue feeding them and offer a modicum of tactile validation. Eventually, a healthcare clause was added, but that’s it. That’s the deal. I’m quite certain dogs have often wished for a renegotiation of terms.

But I never pet this dog. To do that, it would be necessary for me to shove my hand through the fence, or lean over the top – and this could be interpreted as intrusive by someone living in the house. Someone who probably owns a shotgun.

The eyes beg. The tail wags. I tell myself the dog isn’t really sad. That’s just how his face was designed. Oh, sure, he would appreciate a pat on the head, but he certainly won’t cry himself to sleep if I don’t comply. He’s not that fragile. He’s a dog. And soon, there will be a new pursuit, and my lack of attention will be forgotten. Seriously. In spite of the antics of the aforementioned overachievers, most dogs aren’t really very bright.

He usually draws the same conclusion about me, and walks away – wandering around, sniffing things on the ground.

But today, I had to wait for the bus alone. There was no dog in the yard. The property was devoid of wildlife, except for a few grackles, walking and nodding like mynah birds in an old MGM cartoon.

Left to its own devices, my mind wanders to another street and a different bus stop. This one stands on the sidewalk of a wide thoroughfare, where a great deal of vehicular and pedestrian traffic passes. Bicyclists also travel this road in packs. There is a 350-acre park nearby and an abundance of restaurants and food trailers. In fact, trailers in general – or mobile homes – represent a large, unapologetic presence on this street. The bus stop in question stands just outside the entrance to a cheerfully well-tended mobile home park, where irony and necessity have collided to create an aggressively retro habitat. It is from the depths of this kitschy aluminum jungle that a large white cat almost always emerges to greet me. Talking incessantly, this friendly creature flops to the ground at my feet, snaking and stretching like a purring contortionist. The cat invariably rubs against me, depositing white cat hair and dried grass clippings on my pant legs.

I always pet the cat and tell it to go home. I don’t dislike cats, but I seriously want this one to go away, and not only because of the hair adorning my pants. The proximity of the street makes me nervous. This is a healthy, well-fed animal with tags and a bell, and obviously belongs to one of the nearby Airstream dwellers, but the pavement two feet away from the bus stop is extremely hazardous … and I’ve read Pet Sematary. Twice.

The cat doesn’t understand English and refuses to leave. I might be ignored for a few seconds, while the strict code of feline grooming overrides all other distractions, but the talking and twisting and rubbing is always on continuous replay. And, foolishly, I continue to gesture nonspecifically, and tell the cat to go home.

This always ends the same way. A bus pulls up and the cat inflates like a blowfish and streaks away with a hiss … and I climb aboard the bus with cat hair on my trousers.

I’ve never really considered our contract with cats. I suspect it might still be in committee.

Back at the original bus stop corner, a black Labrador appears with a cheerful and energetic young woman in tow, jarring me from my contemplation. Almost immediately, a deep, resounding bark from somewhere inside the house acknowledges this intrusion. My canine friend, doing his job.

The grackles fly away, and the dutiful barking continues until the Lab is halfway down the next block.

Good boy.

... AND A HOCKEY GAME BROKE OUT.

I walked into a local tavern last night, where I am no stranger. In fact, I’ve been around since they first opened their door … and designed the logo that hangs above it. Last night there were about fifteen customers watching three TV screens. One screen was enormous. A man who resembled a Hobbit was singing O Canada. (On TV, not in the bar.)

A bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years served me a beer. I paid for the beverage and tipped her. Before long a hockey game broke out. (Also on TV.)

I can’t really blame hockey. I dislike all sports equally. And, dislike is a misleading term. It suggests I expend energy in the thought process leading to the reaction. I do not. There is no explanation for this—except that in my multiple decades on the planet I have simply never found a single reason to care about sports. Not one.

Eventually, another bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years asked me if I wanted another beer.

I said, “I might be leaving.”

He said, “What can we do to change your mind?”

I said, “I doubt you are prepared to do it,” glancing over my shoulder at the largest offending appliance. This was meant as a joke. I had no intention of asking him to turn off the game. Like I said, there were about fifteen people there. Five for each TV. Hardly a groundswell, but certainly a quorum.

Deeper I dug the hole. “That’s a lot of hockey.”

All goodwill died face down on the bar. The bartender’s visage became a waxy scowl. Disdain emanated from him in waves. “Dude. It’s the last game.”

Still trying to be funny, I said, “You promise?”

The scowl deepened. Disdain visibly turned to anger and resentment. “It’s the Stanley Cup.” He shook his head, almost allowing abject pity to break through the veneer of disgust. As he walked away, I attempted to defuse the moment by lying. “Well, I guess it’s just a deficiency on my part.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.” More head shaking. He snarked two more comments I couldn’t hear, and walked into the back room.

Pity. We have always gotten along in the past. Had I known he was a hockey fundamentalist, I would have kept my opinions to myself.

My dislike of sports creates more vehemence in others than in myself. In fact, the only aspect of it that makes me angry at all is the assumption that I care. The implication being--just because I’m standing or sitting in front of you--I obviously share your enthusiasm for the rink, the court, the diamond or the gridiron. I don’t know where such delusions are born. There are many aspects of pop culture, literature, cinema, art and life itself that interest and inspire me. But I would never assume everyone (or anyone) shares my zeal for any of it. I would never, for example, say to someone I just met or barely knew:

“So, do you agree that the non-Samurai Kurosawa films represent the best of his work? I mean, Ikiru, The Bad Sleep Well, High and Low… Drunken Angel! Come on!”

I would never say that. Or this:

“Of all the Silver Age Kirby inkers, I think Chic Stone gets shortchanged. I know everyone loves Sinnott, but I think his brush strokes often squelched the energy of Kirby’s lines. Visually, Stone was noisier and a lot more fun.”

How about:

“Dude. Anthony Mann. The westerns or the noir?”

Or:

“Charles Williams. He was like Jim Thompson, but with hillbillies and boats.”

Although, I might ask:

“Do you hold three to a Royal in Double Double, or Triple Double? Or neither?”

While I was contemplating my departure, a third bartender I have known in a professional capacity for many years walked up and started talking about Robinson Jeffers and Charles Bukowski. So I had one more for the road.