The Rainbow Connection 2012/03/24

I keep thinking about Skittles “Reflect the Rainbow” commercials.

The brightly coloured candies were, and are, a big favorite of my daughter. She’s 32 now and her attachment to Hello Kitty, Skittles and the Flintstones are reminders that she has not abandoned her inner child. She has an understanding of the paranoia that nearly gutted me as she was growing up; I obsessed about some fool like Ted Bundy or Henry Lee Lucas coming into the neighborhood and spiriting her away. But I always believed the danger would come from some far off terror that picked our neighborhood at random.

Fast forward to now, having moved from a city of about 100,000 to a little town of about 1,000… To my surprise, Halloween is a big deal here. Children traipsed onto our porch from all directions and we gave them bags of Skittles. Then they bebopped from our yard and headed to the next house. It was the kind of scene that makes you revel in the beauty of their innocence as they display a window into the make-believe that only the mind of a child possesses.

I first read about the murder of Trayvon Martin and decided my old eyes had gotten details wrong. I read it again and it only made it worse. He was on an errand to obtain junk food, which is so characteristic of kids of all ages here and this is America– where skin color should convey a superficial distinction that has nothing to do with anything else. In the 21st century, kids don’t get shot walking to the corner store. America’s supposed to be the melting pot– we’re a reflection of the rainbow, more so than any place on Earth and therein lies the beauty and greatness of our country. Sounds sappy but I believe in the power of diversity. We are able to do great things because we bring the panoply of knowledge and experience of the entire world. No, we’re not perfect, and goodness knows the place could use some work.

So what am I to make of something that the stone heart section wants to convince others is only an anomaly? There are some who do not choose to see the spectrum of humanity as one of mankind’s marvels. They see the world in terms of basic black and lily white– as if skin color is proof of belonging to a particular army. What am I to make of the derision of  this decent kid– the victim of a senseless shooting– by the bigots on the Internet or  TV? Has there been any real progress in the struggle for equality or have I been swigging  from a major concoction of wishful thinking? How can a section of humanity (giving BOD here) pronounce this crime as anything but horrendous– indeed, they have been making the same slurs that made my Papa cringe forty-some years ago because the bigotry of others was two-fold: 1) there was their basic, nauseating racist attitude toward anyone of color, coupled with 2) their assumption that he (my Papa) was part of their poisonous, prejudiced lot? The death of a child represents a rift in what we see as the natural weave in the fabric of our lives. It’s one of those things that parents and grandparents who haven’t been so unfortunate to have experienced such a loss may pause to contemplate the prospect, only to eject the scenario from our mind in the nanosecond our hearts shudder in response. How can they make light of so ponderous a matter?

I should not be reading about Trayvon’s trip to the store as a prelude to his death. It should be the subject of his Facebook status. It should be one of those mundane things a 17 year old does because they are hanging out and impatient as all hell to turn18. He should be giving that almost fluorescent smile as he contemplates a clever April Fool’s trick he can play. His screams should, one day, blend in with classmates as they cheer their college sports teams on to victory, rather than erupting as a lone, piercing cry in the night and chilling hearts in every corner of the world because it has been memorialized in a series of nightmarish 911 calls.

Trayvon should be here today, thinking that he could go for a bag of Skittles before turning in. Instead, he left a world reflecting on what a high price has been paid in order to remind us that one of the easiest things to do often proves impossible for some: live and let live. It’s doubly tragic because Trayvon could do just that, while the one who awaited him accommodated his overactive imagination’s insistence on reacting to a half-baked, irrational fear he had been nourishing for years.

Never again will they be an ordinary bag of Skittles.

Closing the Facebook… 2011/11/19

I did it.

I got the bleeding Facebook monkey off of my back. I realize that I really didn’t have that much of importance to say. Nobody REALLY wants to know that I woke up in time to hear Zager and Evans on the radio, pounding out the horror of the end of Earth and man’s pitiful, inert existence via their one hit, In the Year 2525.

Now I can concentrate on completing 40,000 crossword puzzles at www.boatloadpuzzles.com/playcrossword.  I can now correct those wayward dears’ first drafts of term papers without having to escape long enough to see if it’s time to play the morning trivia at Groovy Reflections’ Facebook page.

There are people I am going to miss like crazy, but the last straw came when somebody complained that I was using an alias (I had merely changed it to its Welsh equivalent). If I had any remaining doubts about leaving, they were erased when I found out that a lot of people were being deluged with pornographic images. Hey, I’m no prude; I just don’t care for pranks that one would expect of a freshman in high school.

Getting chewed out for my political opinions by those who can’t even spell “President” correctly lost its charm pretty damn quick. The daily drill usually went thus: I post something that affects me profoundly.  I know who will take offense and pretty much what form their insulting reply will take. Fight ensues and one of us blocks the other one from existence. I make a snarky post about my former “friend” and the cycle starts over again with someone who decides it’s okay to spit in my cyberliving room.

So Rhosyn Felinau has had her last Facebook soiree. My fondest hope was to hang around long enough to celebrate Brian Epstein’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but I realize that I’m no longer integral to that campaign. Bless my dear C! She can do anything and she will eventually triumph in that most important endeavor.

Most nights, I left after posting the words of Are You Being Served’s Young (and Old) Mister Grace: “You’ve all done very well.” I meant it and I hope the future treats all 1600+ of my associated Bookbuds very well.

The Courage of Honesty and the Essence of Justice 2011/07/05

I have been following the story of Caylee Marie Anthony since it was first suspected that the normalcy of the toddler’s two year old world had morphed into a macabre narrative of being plucked from the gradual and predictable job of growing up before being cast into the halo of  a white hot spotlight reserved for victims of acts with an almost palpably tragic resolution. When one becomes familiar with a story such as Caylee’s, there is a tendency to wish we had known her in life, but that would hardly have been possible; she would not have made the acquaintance of so many people in the course of a pedestrian and short but mostly happy existence. We only came face to face with the knowledge of  this elfin beauty because someone, somehow, did something to her that was so horrific that most of the rest of us cannot fathom the act. Perhaps we feel cheated because this one life might have managed to touch ours in a less dramatic and poignant way had she not been murdered.

Those of us who have adhered our minds and hearts to this story know the most, if not all, details of how Caylee’s small body crossed the point of vibrant life into irreversible death. From the beginning, the spiral of accusation whirled around Caylee’s very own mother, Casey Marie Anthony. The media started its audience ensnarement early and it spun speculative webs often. Not surprisingly, Nancy “I Reject Any Concept Which Does Not Support the Theory of the Crime That Enrages the Most Viewers” Grace mounted the wagon of societal self-righteousness and proceeded to whip every sanctimommy and aspiring gumshoe from the Jerry Springer pool of extras that watch her show into slavish frenzy.

Early on, angry rubberneckers showed up at the Anthony home, yelling and cursing, even as the search for the toddler was still under way. The robovigilantes besieged Cindy and George Anthony at their home, doubtlessly goaded into action by the roars of indignation that played out on Grace’s nightly sensationalism soiree, as she wailed against a justice system that didn’t act as fast or as radically as Nancy felt was merited by circumstances. Grace acted as if she couldn’t align “cause” with “effect” when it came to light that this whackadoo posse was making house calls. Perfunctory words of shock were expressed… Whatever, Nancy.

Then, the tragedy played out to the most heartbreaking conclusion possible. Caylee’s remains were found in a vacant lot a short distance from the Anthony home.

Because the public had responded to this child in such a profoundly emotional way, Caylee’s funeral was opened to the public, despite the fact that Cindy and George had received such evil treatment at the hands of a mob who thought it their job to vigorously champion– even in death–  the grandchild of these total strangers. The pain on the faces of the three Anthonys in attendance that day was palpable, as it would remain for their publicly featured, foreseeable future. When George came to the dais and spoke of how Caylee referred to him as “Jo Jo,” the distress of the attendees was audible. On the Net, the ceremony was referred to by some detractors as “the Cindy show.”  The “no win” attitude toward the beleaguered family was now firmly in place.

As the funeral aired, a caption flowed at the bottom of the TV screen, reminding viewers to stay tuned after the service in order to hear Nancy Grace’s contribution to the proceedings…or something like that. It was Caylee’s day, after all– or should have been, but totally tactless, blood spewing Nancy was having none of that. Even as Caylee’s burial was imminent, Grace saw it as just another chance to accuse, reprove and condemn the likely culprit, rather than offer tender words befitting the premature death of a child. Grace’s segment was an event easily summed up in four words: utter lack of class.

The justice system wound up for a proper investigation and the bullseye landed squarely and firmly on the head of Casey Anthony. Even on the days with little or no developments in the case, videos of the initial missing person call to 9-1-1 and jailhouse visits when George, Cindy and Lee visited Casey were often played in one continuous loop, ad nauseam. Nancy began calling Casey by the absurd and just plain stupid sounding moniker “Tot Mom.” This was a systematic  campaign, intentional or no, of shitting in the prospective jury pool. The proof lay in the fact that there was fever pitch enthusiasm on the parts of some who anticipated the approaching trial as if it were a public execution rather than the trial and deliberation phase.

Come the trial did… The Net became a festering cyberswirl of insults against everything about the trial. Everyone decided their calling involved critiquing the behavior of all the officers of the court whether prosecution or defense. The scurrilous remarks against the Anthony family ratcheted up commensurately and pronouncements of Casey’s guilt swelled against a subdued, barely discernible backdrop of the voices of those who believed otherwise.

During voir dire, it became obvious as to how difficult a task it would be to seat a proper jury and alternates. Proof positive of just how formidable a task it would be was capped by the courtroom appearance of a mentally ill woman named Elisabeth Rogers, who disrupted the decorum of proceedings by loudly announcing “She (Casey) killed somebody anyway.” For her pains, Rogers was given two days in jail.

Then, too, emotions ran high as everyday featured a contest over who would be granted the few public seats available. The jockeying for a seat eventually resulted in a physical fight between the neurotically curious. Home spectators expressed gratitude to the talking heads who delivered media commentary for their part in obtaining justice for Caylee. Another disruption occurred as Matthew Bartlett flipped off District Attorney Jeff Ashton. The penalty for his misbehavior was six days in jail and a total fine of $623.

And above it all, Nancy Grace kept churning out the acid of indignation and righteousness but tempered with the almost gleeful certitude that her favorite whipping girl was going to get the chop.

After six weeks of testimony by prosecution and defense– with the latter side asserting some unspeakable accusations against Casey’s father, George, and her brother, Lee– the case was handed to the jury on the afternoon of the Fourth of July. It was a “slam dunk,” so some said. Predictions of quick conviction won the day. “Quick,” court watchers learned, didn’t mean first day verdict. But it did come mid-afternoon, on the fifth of July.

That’s when the jury in the self-entitled State of Florida v. Casey Marie Anthony found her “not guilty” of murder, “not guilty” of child abuse and “guilty” of lying to police. Between the two legal camps, more than 100 witnesses had been interviewed over a timeline of 33 days. The overriding theme, beyond whether or not Casey Anthony was a murderer, was the bizarre behavior of those who appointed themselves as guardians of justice with a concrete and steel beam belief that their roles were of an advisory nature. Hey, this justice shindig was a “go through the motions” affair anyway.

When things didn’t quite work out that way, the self-conferred consultants were outraged. Those on the jury knew what path justice was supposed to take; they had betrayed the bullies who had complete confidence in THE outcome. This verdict wasn’t the one that had been predicted, pre-approved and announced in advance by the overwhelming majority. Hadn’t this jury understood that there was actually only one verdict for consideration? How dare the jury take the instructions of Judge Belvin Perry seriously?

Many of those who were merely spectators and courtroom observers during the trial involving State of FL v. Casey Marie Anthony proudly celebrated the Fourth of July in the hours after deliberations ceased for the day, and they likely reflected briefly on the day in 1776 when the first step toward nationhood commenced and eventually developed a legal system envied by the majority of the rest of the World. By the later afternoon on the fifth, that pride was replaced by a substantial and childish desire to violently set aside the hallowed concepts of justice fostered by centuries of legislation and conflict– and all to satisfy a blind beastly desire to punish someone whose trial was, of course, a complete and utter formality.

Say we should deviate from practice just this once? How can jumping from accusation to condemnation be wrong if we commit to never doing it again?  Isn’t it obvious that this case represents an acceptable exception to the rule of law? Oh, we can rationalize one round of  ”take the key and lock her up,” just this once, since we are all in agreement as regards to the guilt of Casey Marie Anthony…right?

The proper response to those questions, of course, is crystal clear.

It is a tragedy of monumental proportions that a child’s voice has been forever silenced. But isn’t there some measure of justice in knowing that the system did all it dared in Caylee’s name? Is there not some beauty that her name will live on in celebration because she was the cause of such a prevalent desire to do the right thing, whether or not it was the popular thing? The fact that Caylee Anthony commanded such an outpouring of perfect, flawless love from all over a nation currently so divided in philosophical attitudes surely accounts for a kind of justice that can’t be measured by jurisprudential means but speaks of our common desire to do all we could for her– and that is exactly what we did. Those we designated to take up Caylee’s cause did the job we asked of them and they dared do that which they felt was right. That is the kind of courage fittingly associated with the brief  life of a beautiful, brave little girl who did not leave this world unnoticed.

Sleep well, perfect little sylph.

Must Retch TV II: Must Kvetch 2011/07/04

(Continued from Part One: Must Retch TV )

While dogging all the channels about their respective metamorphoses into dreck filled bungholes appealed to me, I opted to go for the one that angered me the most.

TV Land was designated bitch of choice.

I joined TV Land’s Facebook page and was intrigued by the fact that many were complaining the change in the format, especially once the network crammed its nights with shows that can’t accurately be called classics. To add insult to injury, the shows were (still are) some that can easily be viewed on other stations. Roseanne,  for one, is featured all day long, once a week (usually Thursday) on Oxygen, while Everybody Loves Raymond is a staple on TBS. Home Improvement can be found on a couple of my local channels. Evidently The Nanny is not prized by any of my local affiliates, but TV Land’s sister station, Nick at Nite, also shows it often…too often. In fact, there have been instances of dueling Nannies as both channels feature episodes of the gratingly adenoidal Fran Drescher as an irritating governess capable only of teaching her three charges how to perpetuate a stereotype. The fun to be obtained from TV Land was simply through the exchanges of  barbs by the discontented at the channel’s expense. Questions regarding if or when classic shows would return were never acknowledged by the admins but they continued to post events and milestones that were devoted to the people and programs of the vintage TV era.

You have to understand that the fans, like myself, had happily followed this upstart channel because it fulfilled a very specific desire in our lives. We even felt delicious joy when TV Land aired decades old commercials that had dropped out of our lives with little or no hope of ever seeing them again. Had TV Land showed vintage network programming intact, day-by-day, with no telltale signs that it was forty or fifty years on, the vast majority of the Boomer gazers wouldn’t have uttered a syllable of protest.

The complaints against the new programming increased in a line directly commensurate with the amount of new programming featured on TV Land. I dubbed the channel “TV Bland: Home of Tasteless TV.”  The insults against TV Land grew in number. Once the insults against the faux reality show Harry Loves Lisa reached fever pitch, the expulsions began in earnest. The admins started flinging the worst of the malcontents from the Facebook page as stars of the internally developed and lauded diva showcase were mercilessly lampooned by the channel’s longtime fans. TV Land was taking blood crusted first nibbles off of the flesh of viewers hands who had long caressed their sponsors’ butts in order to keep the network viable during the early lean times.

Then Hot in Cleveland came to town and TV Land’s tolerance for criticism plummeted a flitter more each day. Interestingly enough, that all coincided with the invasion of the cheerleaders. New names descended on the site and they were posting one sentence cheers for a show that had yet to air, but the strength of the cast seemed to prevent any pessimism in terms of the show’s potential for success. Yes, of course I watched it on the chance that Jane Leeves, a favorite of mine, could carry a show with so wonky a plotline: Fading media beauties decide that their romantic constellations might rise again in the less-metropolitan atmosphere of Cleveland, OH. Oh, and there was also the invaluable Betty White factor. The ability to sign the last surviving Golden Girls alumnus made for one hell of a ping on the audiences’ sentimental radar. Personally, I thought the show was a dog, and I said so. Of course, TV Land banned me. Not that it was any big deal by then, because there wasn’t much of an allure left to their old crone of a channel. Their modus operandi, by then, was to post the milestones involving old school programs, but the campaign to cause excitement about their B- program began in earnest– as did the expulsions of those who apparently were of the unexcitable league. The initial success of HIC spurred the launch of a new creation called Retired at 35. How George Segal and Jessica Walters were sold on starring in that snipe hunt can not be imagined.  Evidently, though, the manufactured success of the new show couldn’t be mirrored within the audience members, so after a valiant attempt to foist the lame, slapdash turkey on those who had somehow swallowed HIC, it disappeared.

In the meantime, I took to emailing and calling Viacom, TV Land’s parent company, in an effort to speak with someone regarding their apathy regarding fans’ concerns, as well as the expulsion of once loyal fans from their TV Land site. From that day to this, I have never received any sort of response for my pains. Those that I know who have been ejected from the TV Land bunghole have met with the same silence.

The next occurrence came as TV Land’s perennial heroine, Fran Drescher, along with ex-hubby, Marc Jacobson, sold them on an idea that had the ring of truth to it. The basic plot (and the only one, really) concerns a wife who discovers that her husband of several years is gay– oh, deja vu alert! The same thing actually happened to Drescher and Jacobson when they were married. Well, between the experiences of Drescher and Jacobson, former NJ Governor and wife Dina McGreevey and the countless talk show discussions involving similar events, such turns of events have ceased to be a sparkling topic of interest. But the audience was supposed to get excited about the show because in the course of its development, Drescher had magnanimously concluded that she must be the one to play the part of the beard wife. I watched it because I won’t critique what I haven’t seen; I’m funny that way. It was predictable to an extent that forced me to conclude that TV Land would be overjoyed with my work. The formula is: set up double entendre; construct response with opposite sex’s twirling of question into gay interpretation– or some variation thereof… Repeat for thirty minutes, excluding relief offered by commercials…

Simultaneously, the cheerleaders for Drescher were posting everywhere. Every critique, no matter how minor the rag publishing it, featured vacuous follow up posts that spouted love for Fran Drescher. Others, who had also seen the whispers on the Net– speaking of a proliferation of Viacom plants– began mentioning of the paid patsies with more conviction. Even TV Land’s Wikipedia article speaks of Viacom employees who serve as mouthpieces during times when prominent media events are airing on other channels: “When a program deemed particularly important is airing on another network, TV Land has aired nonsense programming (such as footage of staff members holding signs or wearing T-shirts) to encourage viewers to watch the network programming. Recent examples include the series of Friends (2004) and Everybody Loves Raymond (2005). The network went dark during the last episode of Seinfeld (1998).”  TV Land’s Facebook site is now nothing more than a front for advertising their “original programming.”  Hell, last time I checked, every TV Land station break featured spots for their new tarted up shows, even as the static widgets in the corner reminded us of their “hits.”  A new episode of these “hits” is usually shown upwards of five times in a week and marathons of shows produced for six months or less appear on holidays in the form of marathons. How much of a hit is it when creators feel that a show’s existence must be validated by such an aggressive regimen by inculcation?

I frankly think that there is something alarming when a megamedia outlet so flagrantly and consistently tries to silence the voices of  fans who, by virtue of paying cable premiums, enrich the moguls, even as they cease to foster a sense of reciprocity and accountability between corporation and consumer. I have spoken to my cable outlet, which is Charter Communications, and they simply say that they have no plans to negotiate with other channels, such as MeTV and Antenna TV, two up and coming outlets which are filling their broadcast days with the desirable programming once featured by the bait and switch tyrants at TV Land. (Charter, incidentally, has the monopoly on cable service where I currently reside.) My Congressman has not ponied up with a single recommendation as to what I can do to address my frustration with the agents of Big Brother. I am now badgering the folks at the FCC to determine what can be done about making communications a consumer driven affair, rather than a media concern’s opportunity to project what it wants its customers to see.  I have nagged the sponsors to let them know that they are dealing with an organization that cares nothing about those whose dollars enable them (the sponsors) to subsidize a program.

Isn’t anyone else outraged, or at least frustrated, by this practice?

Yeah, I know– you don’t watch TV. Well, if you should accidentally find yourself seated in front of one of the buggers, don’t be surprised if you’ve been left with a dial that is filled 70% by Viacom outlets, with the rest taken up by sports and local information channels. Cheer up; I’m sure they’ll still find room to feature good ol’ Fock Snooze.

Related links:

http://insidetv.ew.com/2011/03/08/tv-land-facebook-more-classic-shows/

http://forums.tvland.com/?page=ThreadView&thread_id=723

https://www.facebook.com/pages/TV-Land-hates-Freedom-of-Speech/204145669628099

https://www.facebook.com/pages/I-HATE-TV-LAND/118253874867060?ref=ts

Must Retch TV 2011/07/01

Yeah, I know– you don’t watch TV. That’s the cool story and you’re sticking to it. I operate on the John Lennon principle: I keep the glass-eyed cyclops on almost 24/7 when I’m at home. I still have that childlike fear that I will close my eyes and miss something.

So here’s my other admission: I’m not really sure why I do this anymore, save from a decades-old habit. Yeah, even when I  was married (all three times), I used the plug-in drug as my night light. The continuation of such a mad habit means it’s probably just that– a habit. Well, I’m sticking to that.

Once the TV cable channels were new and they put their best programming feet forward. In all fairness, that’s how we all got suckered into watching all the networks. The cable companies used the M.O. of all good dope dealers– the intro specials were plentiful, pleasurable and cheap. Once other viewers and I were in over our heads, they swiped the Sazerac and slipped us Kool-Aid. We were still supposed to– or so the industry suits hoped– take our daily tank and disappear. Most viewers didn’t disappoint their pushers, either.

My first love, excluding PBS, was A&E, which once stood for Arts and Entertainment Network.  They helped me build on my previous worship of Britcoms, such as Mind Your Language, Fawlty Towers, Yes, Minister and its followup, Yes, Prime Minister. The way it worked was A&E only broadcast from 8 PM until 4 AM. From midnight until 4 AM, they repeated the same lineup that aired from 8 PM until midnight. Even so, those were often the best four hours on TV to be found anywhere in the 1980s. They featured Solo (with Felicity Kendall) and Open All Hours with the comic genius Ronnie Barker starring as stuttering, parsimonius storekeeper Arkwright. There was also the flipped out situation when BBC shows starred American actors, such as the great Elaine Stritch in Two’s Company or Kelly Monteith in his eponymous variety show. A&E also showed Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance and HMS Pinafore, as well as Oscar Wilde’s play, The Importance of Being Earnest. And while I had no great cognizance of Leonard Nimoy’s importance as a Vulcan with flat effect and lethal neck grab, I was totally wowed by his emotional portrayal of artist Vincent van Gogh’s brother, Theo, in the one man show Dear Theo.

But all that time, I was living in a fool’s playhouse. Slowly and craftily, the jewels in the crown were gradually replaced by paste. It lost all but its last flashes of former glory. Occasionally, I’ll watch A&E ‘s reality crime show, The First 48. Given the network’s preoccupation with the pathology of substance abuse, I suspect that A&E now stands for “Addicts and Enablers.” They also import shows after first runs on other networks, such as Criminal Minds and The Sopranos.  The absolute perigee of their lineup, in my opinion, is the schlock fest Dog the Bounty Hunter. For quests pitting this ex-con C-grade wrestler stand-in with his trusty paintball gun against crack-rattled, half-naked litterbugs, I gave up some of the best entertainment ever staged in the British Empire.

Today, when I think of the History Channel, my mind spins on what an irony their name is. The channel’s heyday is now passe. They used to feature programs about a wide variety of American and some world historical events. The day’s programs generally started with The Real West and anything might happen afterward. On History’s Mysteries, they even described John and Yoko’s purchase of a certain Mercedes wagon, a special order since the model had yet to make its debut in the Western Hemisphere. Sometimes the emphasis on the Hitler mystique was on the grating side, but the channel delivered a fairly splendid buffet of governmental, martial and biographical dainties. Even Ozzy Osbourne let us know, via his reality vehicle, that the channel was a favorite of his. Hey, the History Channel was getting through to that wild man!

Eventually, though, the swill started flowing through the cracks of time. More and more shows of a supernatural and/or speculative vein started cropping up; anything to do with Nostradamus seemed to have gained pride of place. Hitler was there only by virtue of his interest in the occult. New programs featured were characterized as modern history. Really, people? Ice Road Truckers?  Sorry, but watching trucks and their drivers going ice skating is not a riveting or academic concept. Besides, such a show belongs on, say, Speedsouth or ESPN 2. American Pickers? It’s where people who would otherwise be on the freaky side of the Hoarders equation are sought out by two guys whose mission is to hustle the pack rats out of their objets d’art, memorabilia and collectibles. It’s Hope and Crosby starring in  On the Road to the Antiques Show.  Now they’re trying to scam Dorothy Lamour out of her sarong so they can resell it for a profit.

There also used to be this effervescent flashback channel known as TV Land. It featured old school programs, the sort of which even many of today’s youngsters enjoy. When it was riding high on a wave of retro fever, it even featured vintage commercials. One could see programs such as Burns and Allen, I Love Lucy, Laugh-In, The Ed Sullivan Show and The Flip Wilson Show. No, it wasn’t rocket science, but it was glorious for those of a generation who had been waiting for an opportunity to review the entertainment backdrop of our lives on a slightly better screen than from where it came. Slowly, though, came the influx of reality programming, as well as movies that were not so tired when they debuted shortly after The Jazz Singer. (Okay, Crocodile Dundee isn’t quite that old…). There were also wearisome, repetitious  cascades of the same three or four shows being aired in various order, night after night. Roseanne, Everybody Loves Raymond, The Nanny and Home Improvement were the only shows that one usually saw on TV Land’s weeknight lineup. The reality shows were absolute dreck; in fact, I’ve often wondered if they were designed to be so dismal as to make one look forward to the endless parade of the second-tier shows from the last twenty years. How’d You Get So Rich?, hosted by Joan Rivers, delved into the stories of people whose journeys into the avenues populated by wealth were fueled by the same stuff that powers a crazy train. Personally, I want to forget that I live in a nation where people purchase disgusting fake teeth in an effort to ridicule those poor souls whose finances preclude a visit to the dentist. By the same token, I am not the least bit interested in a soap opera tartlet who finds that her youthful desire to be the perfect Silicone Sally has resulted in a kisser that look as if it could simultaneously put a lip lock on every ass walking down Hollywood and Vine, up to and including all 17,000 Kardashians. People in this nation are dying by inches without proper health care and I’m supposed to be crestfallen over elective surgery to correct elective surgery? Harry may have loved Lisa, but most of the rest of us didn’t like either one of them.

Other channels have proved lesser scoundrels in the bait and switch parade. TruTV started as CourtTV, which was dedicated to American jurisprudence and the annals of crime; now their evenings are filled with mock reality shows, such as a workingman’s  Jerry Springer schlockfest called Operation Repo. TLC once stood for The Learning Channel.  Shows once included medical  procedures, scientific lore and a panoply of intellectual gems. Now, it seems to be a channel preoccupied with hyperfecundity and birth. Kate Plus Eight (now minus the complete turkey basting set, including legs allowing him to run around with other potential brooders), the contaceptive oblivious Duggars from 19 Kids and Counting, the simply oblivious on I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant and A Conception Story are just a few of the shows on TLC that seem geared toward making everyone do their Old Testament duty to “be fruitful and multiply”– exponentially.

On top of all those channels morphing into madness, there were also the dirty tricks of the cable company– in my case, it’s Charter Communications. C-SPAN2, which often features authors discussing their works of the mostly non-fiction sort, was yanked from the middle expense tier. Gone was my access to interviews with the likes of two of my heroes, namely E.R. Braithwaite (To Sir, With Love) and Shelby Foote (The Civil War: A Narrative). Also pilfered was the Game Show Network, featuring Jeopardy! and What’s My Line? repeats. That last item probably sounds a bit frivolous, but it really isn’t. You see, I have this splanchnic fear of contracting dementia in any form. I used those shows to grill my brain box as is urged by medicos in an effort to prevent my phobia from being realized. I don’t need no stinking Golf Channel or eight different networks with sixteen different former athletes delivering such riveting comments as “They played their game and that made all the difference.” I need to be able to be able to tell Alex Trebek that platyhelminthes is the phylum of the flatworm within 2.5 seconds, give or take.

Surely I am not the only one who is angry because they started out by receiving some nice, stout Peruvian marching powder, only to be reduced to a dose of yayvers.  Or is this just the way it is and nobody who still has cable or satellite wants to watch informative, compelling and stimulating TV? I could opt for the more expensive setup, but that would be caving, and, as you all know, I’m leaving the Treasure House very soon. That isn’t an option. Maybe I’ve just reached the ridiculously pigheaded phase and simply don’t know when to quit.

(If you have been kind enough to read thus far, this concludes the initial installment on this subject. The next one will detail my attempts to voice my outrage.)