Plain old "Looking Back"

What got us going the other night? I can't remember, exactly, but suddenly my wife and I were rambling aimlessly down memory lane. Though we grew up hundreds of miles apart, we found lots of common ground as we dredged up old images from our respective childhoods. Our kids have so many choices today, whether it's food or entertainment or shopping; our own experiences were much narrower. I'm sure that's why people our age, who grew up before cable television and video games, share so many similar memories.

We all watched the same shows, for one thing. Leave It to Beaver, The Flintstones, Gilligan's Island, Flipper, Gunsmoke--whatever was the hottest show on a given night, chosen from one of the three networks we had available on our dial: everybody knew the characters, even if they didn't always tune in. Most of us still know the words to the dippy theme songs, like the amazing saga of Jed Clampett. "Up from the ground came a bubblin' crude--oil, that is..." I could stop most any forty-something on the street tomorrow and quiz him or her about Gilligan's Island, and they'd know all the answers. "Oh, yeah, it was a three-hour tour." And so on. We can all look back now at the crap we watched every week, (even during the horrid summer re-run season!), and laugh about it now. We took our shows pretty seriously, though. What else did we have for free entertainment?

We played cards, that's for sure! And Monopoly, and even the game of Life. When we were kids, and feeling creative, we built amazing stuff with Lego bricks and pieces. Stuff we made up on our own, without following step-by-step instructions. All the boys stuck used playing cards to their bicycles with clothespins. Then we'd roar around the neighborhood and thrill to the realistic motor-sound that made. We worried that the cards might wear out our spokes and make the wheels collapse. On a warm summer Saturday night we'd grab flashlights and play flashlight tag, unless there was a really good Gunsmoke re-run on TV, of course.

Our parents took us to the Drive-In. We brought pillows, since we were sure to fall fast asleep during the second feature (the boring "grown-up" movie was always the later show). We never stopped at McDonald's for dinner before the movies; there weren't any McDonalds anywhere near us. Or Burger Kings, or Wendy's, or anything even close. Well, yeah, we did have Drive-In's--the other kind of drive-in, where you could order food right from your car. You could have a burger or a hot dog, a big basket of fries, and a root beer to drink. We weren't allowed to get dinner from the concession stands at the movie drive-ins, 'cause the prices in there were "sky-high," according to my dad. Last movie I saw with my kids, we paid five bucks for a medium-size soft drink. Dad was right!

As kids, the big special was to stop at "The Book Store" for a cherry Coke. Oh, man...cherry Coke--when it was mixed right there in front of you! The Book Store was a lot more than a place to buy books. Keep in mind, this is a two-aisle store with wooden floors and a glass humidor at the register. The Book Store had a slot on Main Street, conveniently on the way to school when we walked. To the right of the entrance was the kid-trap: thirty feet of candy racks. This was before every supermarket sold candy at the registers. We bought the big Smarties by the roll. I think they had things written on them, like "be mine," maybe inside a heart-shoped outline. Everything was a nickle, until it all went up to a dime. Then a quarter. That must have been over the whole course of my schooling, since I don't recall any big shock at the price increases. Seeing a little bag of M&M's selling now for damn near a dollar makes my head hurt.

Anyway, The Book Store had one of those wonderful stainless-steel fountain set-ups. You could order up a big old ice cream sundae or a rootbeer float, if you weren't in the mood for a cherry Coke. The stools were heavy, banded in steel and covered with hard red vinyl (of course? were all soda fountain stools like that? maybe.). It's tough to find a cooler memory from childhood than those few times Dad took us there for a sit-down soda. This place had cool toys, too. You know, the ones you don't want to buy for your kids today 'cause they'll break before the weekend. It was a big deal back then--capguns and those stupid paddles with the little red ball on a rubber band. There were lots of magazines, too. We kids didn't care about those, and we had no idea there were completely naked women pictures hidden in the top rows. I'll bet my Dad knew!

I do remember the big round clear-plastic display case of Matchbox cars that sat to the left of the cash register. You picked out the car you wanted by number, then Dick or Jim (the owners) would get you your Matchbox from under the counter. It came in a funny little cardboard box with no fancy graphics or window to show off what was inside. Before I had any idea about how much things cost, I thought the numbers in the display case were the prices of each model car. How weird is that? It's not like I was stupid or anything; I just had it figured wrong, I guess. Each car was sixty-nine cents, whatever the number of it. I bought one of each, over a period of years. Still got 'em around here somewhere, or my kids have 'em. Bet they'd be worth more than sixty-nine cents if I'd kept the crappy cardboard box and never took them out for play!

Thoughts for next time, or when I update this one: Fran's IGA, and Ogden Drug
No Wal-Marts or fast food restaurants
TV vs cable

Review: Other things I would change

I was a little rough on Jericho last week. That's only because I had high expectations for this new drama. This season offers more than just one new show to try, however. I found at least a couple of these that might end up winners, at least in my book. Followed by, of course, my own humble opinion regarding potential 'repairs.'

Monday night: In the middle of ESPN's still-rough football event, I've carved out a chunk of time to surf over to watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I believe the entire crew from the recently-retired West Wing steers this wonderful Aaron Sorkin drama. On a ten-scale, it's a ten. What would I change? Very little. I'd lighten-up some of the low-light scenes. I mentioned this current fascination with darkness in my long review of Jericho. Maybe I'm getting old, but I do like to see who's doing what to whom. My only other nit-pick with Studio 60 concerns the busted love affair between Matthew Perry's character (head writer Matt) and his leading lady, Harriet (Sarah Paulsen). I know you gotta have conflict; that's a given. Let's not dwell, though-- 's all I'm saying.

Tuesday night: I'm a football fan. No shame in admitting that. So I'm psyched about Friday Night Lights. Loved the movie. I'll have to read the book, too. For the TV version, I've got the same small criticism about the over-use of ambient lighting (or the lack there-of). One big question in my mind: why, tell me why, didn't the network schedule this show on Friday nights?? No, that's not a stupid question! This show ain't knocking the ratings dead, by any means. Any little help-us-find-it might matter! Other than that, this is an eleven out of ten.

Special mention goes to Boston Legal. This delightful/devilish show is in a league of its own. Might even have to give it a twelve on that scale of ten. What a fine and surprising save for a series that started out as the sappy and forgettable The Practice. Outstanding.

Wednesday night: Getting past Jericho brings me to Lost. Probably the most creative show on network television. Deserves its own review, too. Everybody talks about this show, especially on the net. Personally, however, I'm getting lost trying to track the hundreds of unanswered questions in Lost. The cast keeps shrinking, as well; and most of the cuts appear to be more contractually-forced than plot-driven. I love reading mysteries, so I should enjoy the endless twists presented by this exceptional drama. I need some answers here, and soon. Otherwise, I'm simply gonna lose interest. In the late slot, I really like what little I've seen of The Nine. Looks like a dynamite premise, very well executed. I'll have to watch a couple more episodes and revisit that one.

Thursday night: I have to put Survivor on my list of shows I can't live without. The cast changes every year, of course; but the set-up and host remain the same. What other show could last this long (is it ten seasons? nine? I'm not sure, off-hand), without making wholesale changes? Even the music has held up over time. You can speculate about producers interfering and creative/deceptive editing and so on. I still love this concept. No other so-called reality show offers Survivor's intriguing blend of social interaction, team-building, and awesome sight-seeing. The only beef I can think of is actually a compliment: why not show reruns during the summer, like every other successful network show does? Then I could miss a few episodes on first-run.

More Thursday night: Obviously, this is THE night for the networks. I can't explain it, but I can accept it. Suddenly, Grey's Anatomy is number one--even pitted directly against the mighty (yawn...) CSI. I've only watched sporadically, so I'll offer this impression: title character Meredith Grey--played by the wispy, weepy Ellen Pompeo--bothers me. She makes me nervous. She's lovely, in an edgy LeAnn Rimes kind of way (it's in the eyes, I think). But she always appears to be on the verge of tears. I can't stand the preachy synopsis she has to deliver every week, either. That's just me, though, folks. How can you argue with Number One?
We watch ER, despite its advanced age. Almost no one from the original cast remains, and the current newcomers often have little new ground available to them. I miss Carter. I even miss the old Carrie Weaver. I hardly ever find myself emotionally involved anymore, either. But we still watch, waiting for those ever-rarer magic moments. We don't get to watch My Name is Earl, or The Office, however. Those are two of the funniest shows on network TV, but they run opposite Survivor. Since Survivor never shows re-runs, we're forced to wait for the summer season to catch up with Earl and Office. They're still all-out hilarious all those months later, though. I'm not nearly smart enough to offer any suggestions for improving either one.

Friday night: After Thursday's must-see schedule, we're stuck with Friday's who-cares offerings. Since my wife and I are boring old married people who don't regularly drink, dance, or gamble, we find ourselves looking for something to see on this dead-zone night. Fortunately, the dead-zone has ghosts! We love Ghost Whisperer, and not just because we can watch it with the kids without being embarrassed. Jennifer Love-Hewitt always looks spectacular, of course. (Will she ever look older than nineteen? Could she show any more cleavage and still be shown on camera?) I'd ease off on the outrageous eye make-up, if only so JLH can hold her eyes all the way open more easily. This show suffers from the dreaded dark-scene syndrome, too. I know: it's scarier that way. I get it. Still bugs me, though. Other than the ghost show, I have to admit that my wife loves Men in Trees. Good for her; hope she enjoys it right up to the time they cancel it. Maybe the WB or TBS will option this one. Otherwise, it's doomed. That's just my opinion.

The weekend brings blessed relief, especially in the fall. No matter what else might be on, I can always find a great football game or NASCAR event. Who needs dramatic plot twists when you can have option roll-outs or botched pitstops? As long as colleges play on Saturday and SuperBowl Sunday remains in the future, then life is good. All the rest may come and go, but football and racing just keep going and going. That's what keeps me sane. Until next time...

Wither goest thou, Jericho?

It's been fifty-seven years since Pat Frank wrote Alas, Babylon. Would Frank approve of the new CBS drama Jericho? Both book and show use the same premise: regular people in an isolated small town cope with the aftermath of a major nuclear attack on the United States. Babylon is regularly taught in colleges around the country. I'm not sure that Jericho can last long enough to matter that much. (If you haven't read the book, and you like post-Apocalyptic stories--like Stephen King's The Stand--head for your favorite used-book outlet now!)

My wife and I saw the long trailer for CBS's hot new television show at the movie theater. I'm not sure how many TV properties get that level of promotion, but it certainly indicates strong network support for this one. Jericho looks like a high-quality drama with solid writing and a big budget. Let's face it: this is a major undertaking, on the level of the old mini-series. Huge cast, lots of potential sub-plots, expensive location shots--this kind of show requires a serious commitment. That also means this show needs a big audience, and it needs to attract and retain that audience right out of the gate.

Tall order for executive producers Jon Turteltaub, Stephen Chbosky, and Carol Barbee: find and keep a big enough following to justify the big investment. I'm sure they know we're out here. By "we" I mean those of us who cannot stomach even one more iteration of CSI: Wherever or Law & Order: XYZ. "We" are the ones who've faithfully watched the better shows that TV Guide inevitably labels "the best show you're not watching". Which is, of course, nearly always the kiss of death. Those programs have large ensemble casts, talented writing teams, stories that evolve from week to week--and big budgets. Much bigger than the paltry sums required to stage so-called reality shows, but not larger than the costs involved in the legal and medical dramas. These other, non-formula dramas are always riskier than the copycat groups. There's no existing audience ready and waiting for a "something different" offering. The investors have to woo this elusive viewership with aggressive marketing campaigns, like running promo's among the trailers for upcoming theatrical releases. Then they have to convince us to stay. That's the tricky part.

What do "we" really want? That's the question guys like Turteltaub hope they can answer. Based on some of the elements I've seen in alternative-premise shows, here's a sampling of answers to "what we want":

• Stories that aren't about lawyers or doctors or forensics. (Lost, for example)
• Intriguing sub-plots that span several episodes. (As in the amazing Alias)
• Multi-cultural ensemble casts. (Lost, again)
• Mysterious circumstances and un-answered questions. (Lost and, especially, Alias. Whatever happened with those Rimbaldie manuscripts, anyway?)
• Hesitant romances slowly kindled between unlikely, but appealing, partners. (Every successful drama in existence. And when the two cast members finally hook-up, start the count-down to the "unforgettable final episode of...")
• Unfamiliar and interesting locales. (well, there's Lost, for example!)
• The constant threat of impending doom. (Same example shows...)

Now let's consider what else these same successful producers seem to think "we" want:

• Protagonists with assorted problems and issues.
• Female leads who are so hot they should be models, not small-town characters.
• Ditto for secondary male leads, who all apparently forget to shave every other day.
• Unlikely developments that keep things interesting, whether believable or not.
• More hot women in very tight clothing.
• Adorable kids doing precocious things, despite their issues or problems.
• Darkness, dark rooms, low light. (Saving electricity? Film noir?)
• Characters with mysterious pasts and enigmatic responses to inquiries from old friends.
• Very hot women who are sort-of interested in above mysterious menfolk, or vice-versa.

Ok, maybe I'm being a bit too cynical here. The above-listed items can be worthy conflicts and valuable eye-candy for even the most serious, high-class shows. But--big but: let's not focus on these trivial adornments. Let's make a show about something. (Yup, opposite of Seinfeld. As in: drama is the opposite of sit-com.) Jericho offers a wonderful premise on which to build a nearly endless procession of sub-plots beneath the main story-line. Friends, Americans, countrymen--can you even imagine what the hell you'd do if you saw a mushroom cloud on the horizon?? Who needs silly, trivial elements when you have 'nukuler' explosions nearby?? Seriously.

I watched Jericho, episode one with huge anticipation. I wasn't entirely disappointed. This could be a great show, a blockbuster hit. But do we need a bumbling mayor and an incompetent sheriff to make it work? Did a schoolbus full of kids on some weird field trip have to crash? Did a freakin' prison bus have to crash, too? And why is it always dark? (Sure, the lights are off; but the sun isn't broken.) Why does the mayor's son have to be a mystery-boy? Could "where-have-you-been?"-boy's former girlfriend be any hotter? Do we really need a nerdy and troubled teenager, and the hot-girls who hate him? This isn't a daytime soap, after all. Jericho can, and should, be a riveting drama. Simply pose the question--what would you do??--and answer it, one week at a time.

We're up to episode three now. The citizens of small-town Jericho are figuring out how to cope, and alliances are emerging. There's surely trouble a-brewing: Who else is out there? What will these people eat when the food runs out? How will they all keep the peace, despite their natural differences? Is the government gone? Is the air safe to breath? Some of these questions have already emerged, as expected. Some may even get answered. Mingle a few smaller mysteries into the main plot. Feature a couple of fine-looking lasses, among the normal mix of real and regular females. Allow the mayor and the sheriff an occasional triumph. Maybe an ordinary working guy can help solve a problem or two; he could even be a few pounds overweight and recently-shaved. Let the sun shine for at least half the show's sixty minutes. Draw the eager audience into the authentic terror of a post-apocalyptic America. No condescending distractions required. The story would speak for itself, and the ratings would be huge.

Block's "Small Town" is big treat

Fans of Lawrence Block have waited a long time for a new, stand-alone novel. None of Block's series characters--Bernie Rhodenbarr,Matthew Scudder, or Keller--appear anywhere in the pages of Small Town [2003, Harper Torch-HarperCollins Publishers, NY,NY]. No witty buglarish comedy, then, no alcoholic (post- or otherwise) sleuthing, and no murders-for-hire awaits readers here. Instead, we are rewarded with an intriguing mixture of boldly-drawn characters who eventually disturb each other's orbits in the vast solar-system of the Big Apple. Fans of Lawrence Block know to expect the unexpected from his fully-fleshed villains and heroes. This novel's motley crew of flawed good-guys and sympathetic bad-guys certainly will not disappoint faithful readers. Might shock them, though. Small Town won't be featured anytime soon in the local library's Books Read Out Loud program. This one's strictly for mature adults.

Small Town builds its post-9-11 story one piece at a time, as Block introduces each character with revealing morsels and a smidgen of background. First we meet Jerry Pankow, an unassuming gay man who pays the rent by cleaning two bars and a brothel. He also picks up spare cash by tidying-up for a few clients he's acquired by word-of-mouth. One of them, lovely Marilyn Fairchild, turns up dead. Her death leads us to an acquaintance of the deceased: Susan Pomerance. She's the owner of a successful folk-art gallery, and she's looking for love in a whole lot of places. Perhaps the death of her one-time friend compels her to live life with a bit more gusto. Susan introduces us to her favorite attorney and some-time lover, Maury Winters. More on Maury shortly.

We're drawn, next, deep into the lives of two very dissimilar heroes: a struggling writer and a "retired" top-cop. The writer, John Blair Creighton, might have murdered the bar-cleaner's client--even he isn't completely certain of his own innocence. Fortunately for Creighton, his lawyer is the afore-mentioned Maury Winters, one very capable defense attorney. Meanwhile, the cop, former NYC Police Commissioner Francis Buckram, finds himself intrigued with the circumstances surrounding the first murder. (Oh, yes, there are many more murders along the way!) He finds himself even more intrigued with the gallery owner, Susan, who's busy discovering the power of love. Susan immerses herself in the lives of an entire collage of characters, some of them central to the story--some not. It's all fun to watch, at any rate.

As more people die, the circumstances seem to implicate the cleaning guy, Pankow. We know he didn't do it, since we know who the real killer is, and we know why. (No, I won't tell you his name here.) We can even sympathize to an extent, although this poor fellow's methods are rather disturbing. Meanwhile, the writer and his attorney must fend off an over-eager pair of detectives who, at first, feel sure the writer is the killer. Murder charges lead to amazing developments for John Creighton, the struggling novelist. The writer's notoriety ropes in Miss Susan, who knows the policeman, who's pretty sure the author is innocent. One of Susan's other "friends" tells her a story that eventually exposes the true killer, after a few more gruesome twists in the plot. And I haven't told you the half of it all!

I'm sure there have been hundreds of novels written since the fall of the Twin Towers. With nearly three thousand souls lost among four related disasters, there is an endless supply of stories to tell. Small Town is entirely fictional, however. This isn't Readers' Digest "Drama in Real Life." Instead, Block treats us to a mostly irreverent human drama. Don't read this tale expecting heart-wrenching descriptions of selfless heroism. Read it for the joy of a rambling and ambitious plot piloted by a wild and unlikely crew. If, in the end, the whole concoction offends your sensibilities--well, there's always next month's Readers' Digest. For all the rest of us, we can only wait for Block's next endeavor. We might be surprised, but we won't be disappointed.
--Highly recommended: 4 stars (of five).

What's the buzz? "Summer's over..."

For me, the highlight of every summer is the opportunity to go camping. We used to endure the tenting ordeal; but last year we finally upgraded to an aging but very accommodating travel trailer. We've kept one favorite tradition from our tenting days, though: judging the quality of the night for camping. It doesn't matter so much anymore, this question of whether or not the night is "a perfect camping night." The decision remains, however, if only to note the weather and acknowledge those precious few ideal days. This year we counted (and lost count in the process) more than fifty "perfect camping nights." Most of the nights which actually fell during times spent in our newly-acquired camper failed to qualify, which is only to be expected. No matter, really, because I honestly love the sound of a warm summer rain on a metal roof. Talk about a perfect night's sleep!

Summer's nearly over now, though; and the camper sits lonely in the driveway waiting for the day when I'll admit there will be no more camping this year. I'll move the trailer off the pavement and into its winter spot by the garage, to make room for the inevitable snowplowing piles. There remain fewer than a handful of official summer days, by the calendar. Tonight, however, just happens to be a perfect camping night. This, despite the fact that the weather since Labor Day has been just a nuance short of dismal. I made a point to notice the quality of this nearly-fall evening--even though I stopped keeping score a couple weeks ago. I had to say the incantation aloud: "It's a perfect camping night."

How can you tell the perfect ones from the not-so-perfect? There's more to it than a lack of rain, of course. For one thing, the temperature has to be over sixty. Even though the camper has its nifty little furnace, I really hate the need to turn the thing on. A perfect camping night, in order to be included in the tally, has to be that quintessential summer evening. Not even a whisper of a breeze in the air. No lingering mist of rain or drizzle. At least a slice of the moon. But most of all, you have to have the sound of uncountable tiny night critters. That's the clincher. When all the conditions are just right, the symphony of the nighttime insects is so pure that you'd swear it was straight off the soundtrack of a movie. It's a sound that tells you, without any other clues at all, that this is one of those nights.

For the final half of summer, however, we've endured a strange intrusion on those otherwise impeccable evenings. We've had a visitor: a creature so vocal that it drowns out the sweet melodies produced by all the rest of the nocturnal orchestra. He's a cicada--what some folks would label a "locust." ("Locusts" are actually giant, swarming grasshoppers. Different critter all-together.) You won't often see one up close, except when you find an abandoned husk of crispy shell left behind in shedding. Alive and well, a cicada stays out of sight high in a tree. His grayish body (nearly as large as your little finger!) blends beautifully with tree bark. I haven't seen our border, but he's kept to the same tree for weeks now. He talks to us whenever the night is right.

He's capable of making a sustained sound louder than anything you or I could produce from our ordinary vocal chords. There's nothing musical about his song, either. It's similar to the sound you hear when you pass too close to an electrical substation. Usually, there would be at least two or three of these insects singing. When they perform together their shrill buzzing becomes an almost super-sonic background for the rest of the bugs. But when one of these screeching beasts decides to go solo he overwhelms the whole show. Our personal cicada has been auditioning every night for at least the past month.

I mentioned he talks to us, and that's exactly how it seems. His sentence is three identical words, sounding a bit like reeeet reeeet reeeet. The pitch and cadence is always the same; but he sometimes drops the third word. Mostly, though, it's three beats-pause, three beats-pause. For hours. He never tires. And the longer he talks, the less often he inserts the two-beat version. He's never disturbed or discouraged by anything we do: lights on or off, clapping or whistling. Doesn't matter; it's reeeet reeeet reeeet all evening and well past bedtime. He's a pest, and he spoils the idyllic sounds from all the rest of the nightime singers.

I'm done complaining, though. Listening to my invisible bug-friend carrying-on from his treetop hiding place, I'm reassured that summer is still with us. It's another perfect camping night; not the last, I hope. Soon enough the air will turn cooler and our personal evening soloist will go wherever big bugs go for the winter. Gone, too, will be the rest of the band: the crickets, grasshoppers, frogs, toads, and whatever else lives out there making summer music. After a brief, brilliant display of crystal-clear chilly nights and dazzling daylight leaf displays the only sound in the ever-earlier darkness will come from the north wind moving in. I'll sure miss that reeeet reeeet reeeet when that time comes--until spring returns and the cicada with it. I'm sure he'll be back.