Why Am I Getting All These Retirement Articles and Medical Ads..? I’m Too Young For This..!

I don’t doubt it for one moment.  Numbers are numbers.  But even the value of currency changes vastly over time, as does the significance of the numeral on that U.S. legal tender.

I’m fifty-six. I’ve never been that before, and my life’s experience, oddly, never endowed me with a thorough understanding on just how to be fifty-six.

In today’s anti-ageism world, gratefully, we generally all don’t judge or discriminate by age the way we once did. Professionally as well as socially. It undoubtedly has to do with the result of the vast population growth of the last fifty years, coupled with the existing population of so many of the grownups preceding that explosion. Unless the legislation of a “Logan’s Run” Bill were to be passed, the answer is, we all just have to learn to live with one-another. Peacefully.

Unfortunately, one unconditional side effect my age has provoked is this inexplicable comfort I experience when I’m presented in any situation with someone within or beyond my years.  I’m always grateful for the company I keep and those who nourish me. Those younger “old soul” people also know my algorithm, and there are blessedly plenty of those.  But somehow, advancing toward Senior Cat in a world dominated by more and more chronological kittens is something to be reckoned with.

The irony that characterizes my life is, I never could really be a kid.

From the time I began grammar school, Grade K, I was more in tune with adult company.  I was raised in a home of three middle-aged grownups.  My aunt and uncle were the fifties family in the 1970s. Empty nest, with constant grandkid visits. They were my cast playmates. To offset all that silly kid stuff, thankfully there was my mom.  Sometimes, when things got too raucous with the little ones, she’d snatch me aside and whisper, “hey, wanna go to the movies…?” She was just as bored as I was..! We’d get a ride over to the UA Quartet or Glen Oaks, and regardless of what the chosen feature promised, it was a respite.  And she took us to some great ones, like Day Of The Dolphin, Funny Lady, or the uproarious re-release of Take The Money And Run. But what made those afternoons important were the discussions.  Lectures, actually.  My mom was known to venture on in table talk about English literature, Socrates, Aristotle, the Mortimer Adler or Leonard Bernstein interview she watched on Channel 13 last week, and all things academic.  None of them college-learned.

She never attended college. I was raised by a single woman in her mid-forties who lived on administrative office jobs and a lifetime of reading everything in any college bookshop.  She would come to insist in years to come that nothing I was being taught in my Core Curriculum of History or Arts was being related nearly as comprehensively as her efforts would offer.  I had enough exposure to her home-schooling to second that, actually.

Despite some of the numerous setbacks of being raised, ultimately one-on-one at age nine, by a codependent elitist intellectual, one of the top benefits, I never doubted, was some very good company.

Being with my mom and her closest companions at the time, her older ex-husband and friends, in their trendy Village settings in the late 1970s was kind of like hanging out on the set of Open Mind or The Stanley Siegel Show.  Their sociocultural references were ones I’d research and learn all about if I didn’t get them already.  I became absorbed in knowing what all those Bogie and Bacall cracks meant, if I didn’t already figure it out from all those 1940s Warner Bugs Bunny features I’d wake up with on Channel 5 each morning.  When kids my age were wrapped up in Star Wars and Saturday Night Fever, I was fixated on the Museum of Broadcasting, and those precious mid-century kinescope films of The Dinah Shore Chevy Show, Texaco Star Theater, The Ed Sullivan Show, and that Lincoln Diamant collection of TVs earliest acclaimed commercials. When I was approached by one of those high-rise living room talkers wanting to hear what this little kid had to say, this ten-year old was never spoken down to. I could rap about the history of TV comedy for an hour. With Norman Lear.  We would have dug one another when I was ten.

I studied the men’s styles, their wardrobe, these men in their greater fifties.  Mom’s silver haired ex- was a dapper Manhattan schoolteacher, and almost never showed up in anything less than a nifty tweed jacket and knit tie. His notorious Costanza-like twin brother was also a snazzy clothes horse.  I didn’t wear such fashions.  A ten-year old doesn’t stroll into the schoolyard wearing a jacket and tie. But I sure could dream.

My daydreams consisted of the tall, slender grownup me, decked out in the sport jacket, the print tie, and that girl in the fifth grade I secretly crushed on, arm in arm on our way out of the Metropolitan Museum.  Every ten-year old has his dream.

I’d grow up, and keep all that frame of reference I’d cultivated within me. The eighties didn’t really impress me when I lived in them. I held my high school teachers with great respect, perhaps the kind not all my classmates maintained.  Our Assistant Principal was a finely composed man, impeccably dressed each day, with a voice and delivery like a commanding TV news anchor, a veritable Milton Lewis or Roger Grimsby.  My English Honors-Program Lit teacher was lost on his entire class, in their eyes an unmistakable Saturday Night Live sketch.  But to me, this silver-maned semi-Anglican in tailored formals was the real stuff. 

Even if I did hang with a bunch of high-school co-seniors who prided themselves on some kind of worldly sophistication because they watched Masterpiece Theater Sunday night as part of their Honor Society project, but were more focused on the latest Wham video on MTV, I still saw myself not quite so applicable. Ultimately, I’d figure out how to recognize my own individuality, and appreciate it. 

Part of it always meant tossing out references of a world of the past.  Why was a kid of seventeen in the eighties comparing a TV sketch to Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca.? The one response I’d never stop hearing from elders around me was “You’re too young to know about that..!!” How rude.

I never knew why that was an offense.  I still don’t.  If someone today introduced me to their sixteen-year-old and the kid began discussing the early days of Studio One and Playhouse 90, we’d have one fine conversation..!

And amidst a majority of my life spent in the wings of the radio business, where it’s all about the thrill of just “getting the show on the stage”, a constant, collective Olympic effort, surrounded by like souls just as dedicated and clever, there’s been little call for academic conversation or formal attire on any regularized basis.  Just absorption in and gratitude for one’s occupation, while ignoring the changing cultures, if one so choosed.  That’s how I woke up one day in 2005 with no computer or cell phone.

I would learn soon that my elitist disdain would need to change, along with my other virtues.  And in this odyssey I would come to discover not a generation gap, but an existence on a planet in a generation galaxy.

Those grownups, the stencil by whom I designed my self of today, were my age back then.  They were much less healthy by comparison, they had accrued more experience and establishment professionally and financially than I’ve yet to conquer. And to this day, I continue to admire the long lost presence of those vintage towers, indulging when I can at last in some of the era literature and available media on which they once dined. I can actually, virtually pretend I’m them back then..

And suddenly, I’m me now.

Last time I looked in the mirror I was twenty-four years old dreaming of the respect I’d receive as a shirt-and-tie, cardigan-clad grownup. Respect of course, begins inside the self.  I can’t honestly say I’m frightened or dismayed by the sight of a full beard of gray fur.  Trouble is, I’m not so at home with being surrounded by what the AI-driven society believes is my proper wheelhouse.

It’s understood that soon I’ll be a member of that distinguished senior cult. And with that comes the necessary debriefing and indoctrination, on Medicare, health care supplementation, benefit capabilities, matters of “retirement” such as that might be. It’s been commonly believed that the challenges for a man in retirement consist of dealing with the nature of the relationship with his wife after forty years, while sanding the wooden patio deck of his American Gothic backyard, of his palatial two- story pre-century house of six bedrooms, as seen on those financial ads during NFL Sunday. Perhaps the dreaded word of retirement brings to some of us the dreaded fear of just how we expect to exist in some livable way without our codependent source of income or professional identity.  If the holographic Doctor on Star Trek Voyager lost his license, which I think may have happened on one episode, he’d be a mess..!

Most in today’s world, those reaching in age but still vital to our professional teams, are not necessarily ready, or are they persuaded, to step down.  Some, like home-bound pets gazing out windows longingly, cannot.  And therein lies the new dichotomy of the American culture, dividing rich from poor.  The ballad of the Boomers is only the beginning.  Soon we’ll have something called the Split of the “X”.  And it won’t be a kind one.

With life costs and health care costs going nowhere but up, the Medical Industrial Complex surging prices inhumanely, it returns to what some mad, raging House Speaker once yelled in a session years ago, citing the message of the modern health care system: “Get rich or die quickly”.

Taking proactive care of ourselves begins of course with apples per day and less doctor appointments.  But even Jack LaLanne saw his physician.  And for those of us blessedly long un-beset by such immediate need for so long, certain birthdays mean finally dealing directly with that annoying thing you just lived with forever and didn’t think about. Usually because it won’t go away and you don’t know what it’s gonna turn into. It also means looking at how you’re gonna afford to live, maybe where you might be forced to leave and migrate to.  That’s if nothing else changes the plot.

The fifty-sixers I once knew likely did not have to contend with these kinds of untold dreads. They had pensions, safe long-term investments, and policies.  And yet, this looming tidal wave ahead on the radar, I do not perceive myself in any way as “grown up” as those sometimes ailing, ached-and-pained elder statespeople.  I’m blessed, after odysseys of my own to be mostly fitness-minded and dodging the pack in the men’s locker room at the gym, the thirtysomething Schwarzeneggers, talking sympathetically of all the moves they can’t do anymore because of what the prescription meds and steroids did to them. It’s kind of like winning a game of checkers on the Titanic.

But I’m reminded that on this Titanic I’m just a passenger. Age or not.  And if I care to pretend I’m on the Preferred Deck while confined to the rafters, I just might do that. Ultimately, we’re all going to the same place.

Noah F.

 

 

 

 

Even Aeschylus Got Started at Hallmark Once....

 

One day, the cultural boundaries of social media will no doubt predictably expand to allow us, one and all, to meet the communal expectation of sharing in real time-live action video what were at one time in our anthropology human life’s most intimate routines.  Like consuming our food over the sink or at the kitchen counter, or perhaps our time in the rest room. While limited, obviously and agreeably to head shots, depicting nothing too visibly obscene or graphic, much as some modern prophets once presaged, for those inclined, our most intimate lives are going to become some kind of inside-out Maysles Brothers-Fredrick Wiseman-reminiscent documentary, composed of some lesser-cultivated mounds of self-cinematographuzed surveillance footage. The more pretentious among us will opt for black-&-white.

Like any cultural norm on the horizon, its advent exists in pronounced traces. The earliest trace will be inarguably defined in social media’s initial effects upon the communal celebration of birthdays in the common Judeo-Christian culture.

To the day this passage was written, social media has, amidst the scorn and reprimand, been lauded as the extended family conduit, allowing the detached and lonely among us to more easily share and cultivate couches of friends and loved ones, with whom we can express our most immediate thoughts and feelings, and hence never be alone.

Intimate relationships of any sort work both ways. Those whose lives rebuild upon the welcome change of such constant personal connection are forced to become re-socialized to accept the responsibility of both acknowledging and receiving perfunctory greetings upon one’s most ambivalently held personal dates. The most common of these would be birthdays.

What makes the treatment of birthdays on social media such a precarious matter is that while on-line virtual communication is so rife with capability for video linking, picture-sharing, creative graphics and the like, there exists among our electronically cyber-social population, a vast amount of gregarious Facebook participants over the age of twenty, who hold their birthdays, for better or worse, as a mostly non-celebratory event. In kind, to those adults they know and hold dear, they may see fit also not to openly laud any grand well-wishes, but rather keep their knowledge of their friends’ awareness of their acknowledgment silently tacit, and greatly respected.

To many, it isn’t really about an abject “fear” of aging, or even some excruciating discomfort.  But maturity installs certain mental structures within the level-headed citizen.  As a boy of fourteen, I thought nothing was more outrageously hilarious than the shock humor of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and their jokes and bits referencing death, gags that played on their old BBC programme to howling studio audiences.  Many of the humor-loving grownups around me at the time though, people generally of my current age, didn’t find those death gags so funny. As a kid interested in humor-writing, I couldn’t really understand why, though I knew there had to be a reason. One time, with my most liberally-outspoken middle-aged aunt, one who really did appreciate the bluer side of that Brit TV humor, I shared a common Python death-joke reference, to which she sourly growled…..”Not funny….”

It would take me that golf-swing distance from that moment in my teen life until now to understand why it wasn’t.  It was essentially for the same reason that obligatory birthday greetings for too many are not necessarily something arbitrarily celebratory.

Okay, why..?! What’s with us Debbie-Downer-buzz killers…?? Why can’t we just be happy in the face of the uproarious Facebook birthday greeting avalanche and just dive in like a kid into a pile of shoveled fall leaves, instead of moping around like a confused and alienated Dustin Hoffman during his celebration party in The Graduate…?

My aunt didn’t like to think or even joke lightly about death. Elders of mine who cut their comedy-loving teeth on the likes of Sid Caeser, Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks and Woody Allen, were the same ultra-Jewish God fearers that knew the gothic and very direct dangers of that thing dating all the way back to the ancient Greek societies: Hubris.  I learned it to be that forbidden closet of celebration and irreverence that directly provokes personal tragedy. For one thing, you couldn’t write a play or a TV show without it. 

Birthdays of course are not meant, in our culture, to be directly associated with one’s passing.  But as one veers through different time zones in the human life personally for the first time, despite the blessed presence of kindred souls, the internal response will always be one to negotiate.  No time spent with any therapist, psychiatrist or social counselor in some attempt at articulation may resolve it either.  And it just might not be thoroughly conducive to a barrage of the most well-meant Facebook greetings, memes, foolish aging jokes, cake illustrations, and what seem on many levels like some obligatory ritual by every distant one of your mostly invisible 697 Facebook “friends” to post a “Happy Birthday”.  Birthday night means a lot of acknowledging “like” clicking before bedtime.

A friend of mine, a fellow I precede by a decade or more, thanked his friends for all the social media greetings on his birthday, which he cites as getting less celebratory as years move forward.  He’s a pretty upbeat and successful guy to begin with, and my inner response to his comment was, “Y’know, a birthday isn’t supposed to provoke a scratch-off winning ticket response. !”  To yours truly, a birthday, for this grownup anyway, is to be a day of utter and solemn joy.  No, it’s not a nine-year old’s anticipation of a Lego set, a new Bob Dylan 8-track tape, and presents at a party later…It’s not some twenty-year old’s keg party.  For a mature grownup it’s a precious, inarticulate day of appreciation and thanks for the care and safety God has shown you, through the presence of others. It’s an annual time out for some quiet self-observation, to get real about what you’re really letting yourself get upset about unnecessarily, for some self-inflictive and pointless reason, and appreciation of how much you’ve successfully overcome, a decorated veteran of this thing called Life.  Yours need not be the book you will author, or the blog you’ll create, or story you’ll cathartically share with others.  But it’s your honored badge nonetheless, to wear with pride.

It's a little hard sometimes to try and maintain that austerity when you’re the birthday-greeting-recipient act on this Facebook Gong Show.  But that’s when you realize. Off stage, when the set is shut down and the cheering studio audience gone, you really are the recipient of that respect, the respect the virtual on-stage celebrity panelists and their wild barbs know you share with them.  They’ll know it even when the internet is down worldwide, indefinitely.  In the interest of hubris, let’s not even discuss it any further.

 Noah F.

Let’s Not Exactly, But Establish Something Equivalent To Say We Did...

 

I recently had the thrill of an epiphany marking the circle of history, a moment in media time that might have only best been appreciated by the likes of Marshall McLuhan or maybe Andy Warhol over sixty years ago.  It was in real time, and it really happened. The atmosphere around me almost turned sixteen-millimeter black-and-white.

Hearing some predictable little bullet interview with some self-proclaimed startup-business sage, amongst his top recommended ingredients necessary for the successful startup, he cited in passing the importance of having a published book. When the interviewer began asking about the type and nature of the book, and how thorough its content need be, the subject flatly denounced its significance.  His response was that the book’s existence, it’s handsome jacket and its retail existence on Amazon was all that was relevant on the startup interview frontier. The man’s own alleged multi-million-dollar success was nothing to sneeze at.  Although I’ve not acquired and read it, his own book must be one hell of a read.

With no disrespect to the business sage-author in that teensy little interview maybe no one heard but me in that avant-garde fly-on-the-wall moment, that glistening molecule of the irony of our society commenting on itself, the fellow interviewed was no less than the oracle at Delphi, the Greek chorus, stating very much simply what is our accepted media culture. It was the un-fakest news I’d heard in a very long time.

Watchdogs are pronouncedly all over the place. While we need them now more than ever with regard to personal products, environmental, food, medicine and the like, there really isn’t too much time and attention available to police, apprehend or shut down the theoretic or occupational liars that build their so-called credibility on those light, pliable, good looking blocks of painted styrofoam.  Though our culture is way more litigious now in a world of precarious credibility, buyers are expected to be even more wary and won’t get too much legal sympathy for their romantic inclinations of belief.

The bottom line is, if it looks good, do it.  Fewer and fewer today will bear even the intent to question one’s props.  We are existing in a world predicated more and more by the minute on presentation.  If the success of a blind date rests on how you look when you show up at first sighting in that restaurant lobby, multiply that exponentially with regard to an investor meeting or even a corporate interview, and you know what’s what.

Naturally, you won’t get that far or any further if you don’t know the respective “ropes”. But you’re meeting with people grading you not on what got you to the meeting, but on what you can impress them, and potentially others with, at face value.  A fake book is obviously a great start.

How did our culture arrive at one, business and otherwise, where “fake” is in too many ways tacitly acceptable..?  It seemed over one hundred years ago that no one took that irreverent, underground business known as the “moving pictures” to task for its handsome but fictional representation of wars or train robberies. Sixty or seventy years hence, when local and even network TV news divisions fell under fire for their “live-on-the-scene” captures that sometimes were not all they purported to be, the upheaval remained mostly within industry confines, viewers on the whole remaining untraumatized, and generally numb to a relatively accepted finite level of credibility within the media circus.

I won’t soon forget the week that something revolutionary called the Cable News Network, a creation of that Atlanta TV mogul Ted Turner got unveiled.  My mom and I were not rich enough to afford cable TV in 1980, but we did acquire the TV Guide with the gatefold listings for Premiere Week.  All of twelve, and already a heritage TV viewer, I was fascinated.  How much newscasting can they really churn out for twenty-four hours…..constantly..??  My mom offered that maybe they’ll have to start inventing news.  A prophet, she was.

It's not so much about “all the news that’s fit to print”, or abundance with the lack thereof anymore.  Maybe it used to be.  In times since that handsome reprimand, we’ve shifted focus to another criteria.

There may be less human operation in media now, and more “AI”, to any extent. But the audiences reached by these processed foods are in fact real humans, and make no mistake about it, audiences catch on.  If the object of the ball game drifts from accuracy and credibility to entertainment value, they will quickly understand, and grade accordingly. 

And entertainment value, as News Patriarchs of Milleniums Past once in their decline feared, and demonic creatures like Network’s Diana Christensen implored, is now, in a world drowning in available media, the only pliable and measurable value to anything.  Even information.  Even the relevant kind.

It’s the relevant part that actually for the first time ever begins to cause a problem. It reached some affecting levels when the whole COVID thing happened.  Naturally, there are many who question what a lack of spread in the existing media would have done to temper what became a psychotic scare.  Unfortunately, that one’s too big to untangle.  But it does question the fearful corporate-government manipulation of the media we see and hear.  All of it.

That whole odyssey has only served to further our more intelligent awareness of the eroding accountability of the available media.  There’s exponentially more of it now.  And inversely less of it on the whole can be taken seriously.

So who’s to blame for this..?  Corporate interests..? Government..? The late, great Ted Turner…? William Randolph Hearst..?  Rupert Murdoch..?

Maybe we need to harken back to that profound truth once quoted by the late, great Edward R. Murrow during that crisis known as the McCarthy Era.

In unveiling the veneer of the Senator, Murrow stated that maybe the greatest wound inflicted upon us Americans is the ones we inflicted upon ourselves, our false beliefs and fears, ones we submitted to in our embrace of cathartic ignorance.

Could today’s angered cry of “fake news” be the pain of a self-inflicted wound..?

Every day, a new website is built.  A new domain is approved and bought.  A new “news feed”, a new podcast.  A new book comes out, on line or on kindle. 

Some of these are actually at some point read or listened to by someone.  Some, like this little piece on this little blog, will be posted by the writer and read by no one.  But it sure does look handsome.

We don’t open newspapers anymore, we log on and scroll.  And those scrolls are no longer the elite product of hired writers, columnists and trusted scribes.  Podcasts, those available presentations that are reviving the medium our great grandparents knew as ”radio”, are now this very commonly approachable venue that does not require employment by a news or program director.  One need not meet with the likes of Frank Stanton or Ed Murrow to become one’s own Elmer Davis.  Just buy your equipment, voice your tirade, and upload..!  And now we can share and share alike.  We may have grown up in a world where our elders would growl at that idiot, Howard K Smith at the end of his ABC News editorial each night.  But in the adage of “if you think you can do better…”, the complaining ends and the doing begins..! Isn’t this what America is really all about..?!?

In some ways, perhaps it is. And too many of us are having a good time cooking and serving to even worry about who’s sampling our offerings in what is an overcooked buffet table at the most gluttenous event ever. We are obese with publicly presented matter in an egocentric world of people too entertained by the sound of their own voices and sight of their own words to even effectively share in one another’s company in one’s very own, exclusive sandbox.  I don’t really know too many people who read too many blogs or actually listen to too many podcasts. Most people are now too busy presenting their own.  And as far as successive accomplishments, if you can have the platform, do you really need the credibility…?

Less than fifty years ago saw the harvests of talk-show satire on TV. Programs like TVTV and Fernwood 2-Night consisted wholly of the pretend wallpaper predicated on the jokefulness of how easily credible any of that guff could sound. Today, that very guff is the real thing.  Not only do we know it  We’re buying it.  Guff is great, and you’ve got to admire the presentation..! Heck, I know the guy who did that podcast..!  No more six degrees of separation.  We all know these people.  What more credibility do you need..??

A musician I knew years ago once talked of the night he played with his twelve-piece band in a club one night where “there were more people on stage than in the audience”. And in his opinion, they gave the show of a lifetime.  On the once-presaged information superhighway now, there are many such presentations.  The real gift of it all is being the lucky patron in that club, that intelligent, alert, appreciative audience of one, who doesn’t really care how real it is, how credible it is, or even how long or short it is.  That one patron just wants a damn good show.  I hope one day, one quiet night, I’ll get to be that very patron.  In a world so full of it, it’s the best one can wish for.

 

-Noah F.

 

 

 

"I Can Be Impervious To It Now...."

Is the modern social demon known as The Internet capable of vindicating that overcriticized demon of our past..?

“You can’t go home again…” was the phrase credited to the late, great author Thomas Wolfe, citing an all-too admissible condition: No geographic pilgrimage, no imposed socialization, not even in many cases a reunion with a set of particular artifacts, nor a fondly enjoyed food or treat of our youth or a prior time, will conjure the instant immersion in that Walden Pond of the immensely craved nostalgic experience, that mad dash to our teen-hood, childhood, or pre-adolescence. Hearing an old record for the first time in decades might do it for a nanosecond, when that arrangement hits our ears. A stroll past a childhood corner still remaining amidst unidentifiably changed stores and homes might drudge up that Hal Holbrook Our Town moment for a second or two. But all too conscious of our current surroundings, the emotionally displaced grownups among us are, let’s face it, prisoners of the modern world.

We can’t start blaming the world for that. Would we have taken the atmosphere around us for granted as such when we were kids if we knew it would come to this..? I don’t see why not. Back then, it was the only world we knew, much like the one we take for granted today. Living in it means you may not be able to treasure it the way you will forty or more years later. That’s just plain science.

The fact is though, there is a very nostalgic component, ripe for the capture, that can in fact provide that missing puzzle piece that will for many of us fulfill the only organ within us that can generate an empowering, nourishing and comprehensively emotional journey home. That organ is the soul.

If you’re curious, look it up, but enough has been written about the nature of the soul as the human compass, short of reviewing it all here. From Thomas Moore to the late, great Father Paul Keenan, and many other prolific scribes in-between, the concurrent dictate is that the soul is the “G.P.S.” of the mind and body.

How do we reach the soul..? It’s a case-by-case thing. No two humans are quite alike. If none of those trappings listed above will do it for you, maybe it’s one of the key domestic ingredients you haven’t yet added. And only now is that key ingredient starting to become available.

What would it take to develop a “time machine” ? I was maybe about twenty-one when a same-aged close friend of mine and I waxed nostalgic for a good long time one late night in 1989, lamenting as we were on the horizon of the Generation X “Grunge Era”, about how we’ll never be able in this desolate world to return to those days and nights with the collective and profoundly memorable television backdrop that scored our earlier lives. An excavated stack of genuine period issues of TV Guide was admittedly as close as we knew we’d ever come to the surrounding cathode-ray sights and sounds of our harmless, innocent youth. We verbally, vividly and cathartically recalled in some unified thrill the phrases, jingles and announcer mantras of the local television continuity that were the defining décor of our most impressionable era. How many times did we used to hear that same announcer in 1979 say “Tomorrow on the 4:30 Movie..!!”, or that one nameless, distinct voice on Channel 11 say, “Available at Bradlee’s”, right at the end of that product jingle..? Those very ubiquitous knick-knacks were the most recognizable icons of our predominantly fond childhoods, and our night concluded with the gratitude of remembering it, for we’d never see or hear them again.

The evening’s talk raised the fantasy thought of how great it would be, in that pre-internet, VCR age, if some enterpriser would see fit to restore and combine some of the more obscure full-length TV shows of the 1970s with their original commercial breaks fully preserved as well. The going consensus was that almost nowhere would anyone with a high-priced VCR in the last ten years have recorded or preserved anything that included those dreaded commercials and station break scraps. If one made such an investment in a home unit and those pricey cartridges, they were cautious enough to tape only the viewable portions, and leave the crusts behind. Years later of course, here’s these two nostalgic boys realizing that the crusts are in fact the most defining portion of the sandwich.

The crusts, in all their refined splendor, are over thirty years later seeing restoration, and feeding a home-starved population.

The household staple of the last fifteen years, YouTube, has provided a precious and publicly accessible display case for the treasures being unearthed in recent years, by tape-rolling civilians of long ago, and industrial-tape archivists alike. Despite any lofty ideals held in the 1970s and 80s, plenty of VCR owners were just too overwhelmed with the potential task of trying to avoid the appearance of commercial breaks on that NBC Monday Night At The Movies they taped in 1976. So on the cassette they stayed eternally. Until the tapers or someone close to them saw fit to take that dusty relic off the shelf and carefully dub the full two-plus-hours of content onto a YouTube file for all to enjoy, the way the owner and many viewers did on their TV sets that very night in history, prime-time promos, Tomorrow show teases and all. Is there any allure in such pedestrian viewing..?

If you have the desire to literally return for a couple of uninterrupted hours to an evening in your younger or childhood past, it’s precisely that kind of restored matter that may take you there the way nothing else can, certainly if you’re of the “TV Generation”.

Being of the “TV Generation” is by no means a current-day classification. Anthropologically, the “TV Generation” cites a specific, twentieth century population of children who in many cases and in many homes maintained the presence of the TV signal as literally their interior décor, the sort that the late Professor Marshall McLuhan would certify as such. As significant as the avant-garde, tart-colored wallpaper and the shag carpet rendering the living room a veritable cornfield, that wood-grain foundation with it’s rainbow-hued glow defining the room was the main ingredient, completing the ensemble at usually any and every moment.

There’s no established corporate agenda or manufacturing dictate or missive behind the benevolent efforts of the folks excavating and uploading, and probably no forseeable profit motive. What there is however, is the labor of love in the restoration of these lengthy video treasures. Sadly, in what is yet an un-zoned online world, there are some watchdog figures who need to maintain the unfriendly task of obliterating those video scraps or portions thereof whose inclusion violates commercial rights of any sort. No doubt about it, the corporation will always padlock the playground. Often though, in an internet video-scape mostly ungoverned, the intent uploaders will find way before long to re-emerge their treasures. While probably no one’s interested in violating any rights in the process, the reason for the constant renegade efforts and the popularity of these fully restored broadcast files is clear. For an undeniable many of us, these uploads are at last our precious journey home.

A three-hour continuous broadcast file of CBS News coverage on Election Night 1976…..NBC World Series coverage, 1975, Game Three, commercials and all…..The ABC Friday Night Movie with Jaclyn Smith from November 1979, complete with Clairol ads, News-at-11 teases and the rest.....it’s that fourth wall that once defined our earthly existence……damn those sociologists of the 1970s and their crusade against television...!

The irony of course, about that era’s outspoken authors, Jerry Mander, Marie Winn, and Frank Mankiewicz among others, is that these renown television hate-baiters had yet to see or even conceive of this thing called The Internet, the advent of social media platforms, and the neurological decay and psychological harm their innocent technological capabilities would ultimately render. In contrast to a time when adults of mature age could be relied upon to always correct the young in matters of judgement and behavior, we are in an electronic-driven culture that has for many compromised proper mind. It has in many cases farmed into a brand new substance and addiction syndrome, mitigated by abstinence and twelve-step therapy for some who’ve never imbibed as much as an ounce of wine in their lives. For a good many, the internet is not a friendly appliance. When used incorrectly or irresponsibly, like any valuable household power tool, the results can in fact be life-damaging.

And it’s this noted deadly and inescapable force, the source of artificial intelligence, predatory activity, random thievery, deceit and disparagement, that from within also comes the precious connection that restores the souls of so many, providing no less than a healing solace in a cathartic and necessary visit to a place we can no longer go, but to one we can very gratefully for just a few quiet hours return, commercials, annoying little promos, announcements and all. Who cares what’s on..?

Noah F.

"Return With Us Now...."

In this precarious world, many equations are more constant than we often realize. 

People will age, mass transit fares will only increase, inflation will never surge backward, and technology will continuously advance to levels that will render science-fiction novels of sixty years ago irrelevantly unimpressive.

On the survival front, people will continue to love, believe in one another, and pray. Those are likely still some of the best survival structures yet. There’s food, water, and the nearest electronic media to settle our immediate neuroimpulses.  But there’s an even more nourishing structure upon which the most mindful of us daily soldiers will invariably rely, be it a little or a lot, know it or not. 

The traditional, commonly accepted term is “nostalgia”. It’s a word exquisite, a precious lyric to those of us bearing some kind of poetic or artful mind.  Social scientists in knit ties, tweed blazers and gold-rimmed frames behind elaborate desks of prestigious universities however might not be so keen on that word as an operative term. It doesn’t really serve to explain the nature of the ongoing preservation of our social structure.

And that’s a shame. Especially because those bearded pontificators are composed of two factions:  Group A are those who will pleasurably and proudly indulge in a comfy lounger before a screen full of several hours of I Love Lucy, Our Miss Brooks, The Untouchables, The Twilight Zone, every presentation of Studio One, Playhouse 90, and the original Diamant Collection of top 1949-1960 TV commercials, as well as a generous farm of restored available vintage historic television newscasts and reports, lauding it all in the direct name of historic research and appreciation.  Group B are those who denounce such reliance upon electronic screen entertainment, in defense of the greater Arts and Humanities.  Those are the folks who get home and snap on the TV for an hour or two of Hell’s Kitchen or My 600 Pound Life while grazing their supper.

Unfortunately, for a true awareness and acknowledgement of the scientific power and importance of this thing called, for lack of a more sophisticated term, “nostalgia”, you likely won’t find it in the collective academic community. No one’s going to reduce the significance of their prized academic standing to a screen full of black and white flickers.

Meanwhile, one of the most successful American creations in the last forty years, rivaling and fueling the power of the promised information superhighway itself has been the capability of video upload, and on many platforms the free and immediate access provided to so many. Despite the various social concerns related to an accessible source like YouTube, it has for the most part been proven of good use. A population of citizens dating well back to the ancient time of tube televisions and the earliest videocassette recorders have found a common ground to properly share their treasured, captured broadcast television souvenirs of forty and fifty years prior. Retired veterans of the internal broadcast industry are at last sharing their kept reels and spools of network recordings, of full-length newscasts, miscellaneous continuity and more, that at one time, certainly in their own, would have bore zero fascination quality.

Now these are all stunning gems.  Available to all like never before. Often carefully described and categorized.

The benevolence of these care-driven uploaders to provide an instantly accessible broadcast museum is serving to nurture one of our culture’s greatest mental and psychological health-proactive needs.  And that’s only the beginning.

On-line sites composed of uploaded newspaper and literary magazine editions of decades past, shared photograph collections of towns and cities in times past, these are in so many inarticulate ways the restorative medicine for a troubled world of disembodied souls.

True, to some it may seem a little troubling to be seduced in a world fast advancing in its increasing availability of all things vintage and historic, into a full-time journey into the past.  Nowadays, if one wanted to, it might not be so impossible to subsist on a modified video diet of one or two 1970s local or network evening newscasts a day, and maybe a long-form, fully restored Movie of The Week or NFL broadcast, commercials and all.

Guilty.

I might not even be the best sociological example to make my own point. From the age of ten, when I was introduced to the Renaissance of Television Retrospective in the late 1970s, I recognized instantly the capability to genuinely study our culture’s social history in the reflection of the cathode tube.  There were less available artifacts back then, and they were prized specimens.

Nearly fifty years later, it’s not a ninety-minute queue outside a museum on a freezing day.  Power On is all one needs to do on their laptop or i-pad to locate and dive into their favorite era of the past sixty years, much like that Mary Poppins dive into the sidewalk portraits.  With the right audio and video accoutrements, nothing elaborate, one’s living room, with a well-restored long-form TV broadcast of the seventies, eighties or sixties, can visit the era like a trip to the Holodeck on Star Trek: Voyager. And for those of us passengers who emerged in our video-bathed childhoods from said eras, it’s an evening of Our Town.  Only this time ours, not Thorton Wilder’s. 

But it’s one that Wilder would certainly have appreciated. It’s a true revisiting of one’s distinctive and vivid past.  That annoyingly ubiquitous designer jeans commercial that plagued you every night while watching M*A*S*H in 1980 is now pure nectar to the eyes and ears. The virtual interior of your mind will likely come alive with the best selective memories of what probably weren’t your most thrilling days of yesteryear.  But chances are, the triggers that little restored strip of Channel 5 provides will feed the soul with some of the best memory one’s better mind can serve up.

And if it’s a commonality of peace and centered soul for which our frantic, electronically disturbed and misguided minds desperately search to bring form to this era’s scattered, self-centered jigsaw puzzle, it is precisely all of the above.

Probably no one who ever saw the film Awakenings will forget the scientific magic of dementia victims becoming cogent once more.  A real-life experiment with foregone Alzheimer’s patients many years ago saw them rendered shockingly reversed when presented with carefully constructed mock scenery and interiors from their cultural past.  In this finding there is indeed science.

Again, it probably doesn’t serve one entirely one-hundred percent well to overindulge in that thing called “the past”.  Almost everyone of some vintage used to have a grandparent, aunt or uncle, whose favorite treat was to spend time poring over a preciously kept periodical or batch of photographs from their own early youth, maybe some prized possessions like baseball cards, or newspaper clippings. In those days, those few little things were all they had, and it sure kept their spirits going. No way could they overdose on the past. Fast forward to 2024, and you and your internet receiver can dash to the childhood Holodeck of your choice, for almost any length of time, if you’re clever enough.  Piece it together with the right found articles, genuine era books, magazines, and vintage apparel, and you never have to leave 1977..!

I won’t live there permanently.  If I spend enough “nostalgia” time there, I will in fact come to terms with the knowledge that it wasn’t such a great time, for reasons I’ll ultimately remember.  But if three hours of CBS Sports Sunday, with Lowenbrau and J.C. Penney Battery ads and All In The Family promos from the late fall of ’77 can let me spend a few hours in my uncle’s living room waiting for the pizza we ordered from Romeo’s, I’ve got what I need to get me through tomorrow.  For real.

 -Noah F.

 

Summer of The Sign-Off

That first breeze of late August was a reminder of something I was for the first time in my life genuinely anticipating: The new school year.  In 1979, I'd be entering Junior High School, and based on a tour my sixth-grade class was treated to months before, I was more than ready for this.  It looked like the academic proscenium was finally stepping up to my sophisticated standards.  In a post-war-era-founded schoolhouse a block away from the grammar one of the same vintage, genuine interiors that would render no Norman Rockwell portrait all that impressive, I saw the image of upperclassman maturity.  Hallway lockers, individual desks, a front lobby with a pay phone and men's and women's restrooms. Not "girls" and "boys", mind you.  This place meant business.  It was my kind of scene.  For a kid of eleven, I was just as much an alien from Ork amongst my peers.  I wanted to hang with the grownups.  Those people knew how to have a good conversation.

Good conversation was the most significant, and maybe the healthiest part of my diet when I was growing up.  I was surrounded by it constantly and at times encouraged to engage in it.  My mother always had an opinion and the need to express it.  And she wasn't afraid to secretly share with her son her acerbic disdain for interpersonal environments unconducive.  If the family was getting together at her niece's place or my aunt's on a Sunday afternoon, she'd try and toss out a thought about some article she just read in the Times magazine. It would fall flat in a room of resigned visitors, met only with the roar of the NFL crowd on the Trinitron.  She would look at me with that sinister glow and whisper to me....."they don't read books..."

Those were family Sundays.  The other kind were ones spent with her friends, far away from the Great Neck suburbs.  The Village.  Mercer Street.  In some ways, the geographic was all you needed to know.

It was in a fantasically expensive one-bedroom that my mom's ex-husband lived.  I never knew this man during their marriage, which existed and expired well before my arrival on Earth.  I was the product of something less lasting, a relationship my mom shared with a younger man around the time of her separation.  The mid-1960s was no time for this kind of personal liberation. Popular media would not sympathetically endorse that kind of departure beyond a potboiler like Kazan's The Arrangment, which meant that if you're going to have that kind of relationship acceptably, it had better contain Mia Farrow.  During a borough traffic jam, I was almost born in the cab on the way home from the divorce.

Needless to say, the stranger and I never met.  I'd grow up hearing affectionate things about him, but he was little more than something akin to Alan Ladd in Shane..  He and my mom, reportedly on very tacit terms parted ways.  He was never heard from or sought by my mother again.

In stark contrast, her most prized compatriots remained the people to whom she gravitated and, for better or worse, spent her life around in her late twenties and early thirties.  They were the comics, the fellow entertainers of the New York club circuits, those who would pave the way for the age of Catch A Rising Star and Dangerfield's.  She married one and hung with the rest, their friends, their brethren, and stayed on 'til their show-biz pipe-dream sleigh rides fast faded.  

Rather than waiting around for her husband to free-fall, she commandeered him into an adult education curriculum, a G.E.D, a teaching degree, and a job in the public school system.  She worked and ghost-wrote his assignments. He went on years later to score one of the highest-paying gigs the Board would allow.  He'd ultimately reside in a mod-furnished suite off Eighth Street.  My mom and I would visit frequently from our one-roomer in Rego Park. While she subsided off heart-attack disability and the child support he'd long and respectfully agreed to pay, she never stopped hating him for their marriage.  She loved the guy.

A relationship design such as this is not, as many will reflect in hindsight, unique.  My mother remained hurt most by no one other than herself, but was not in the process averse to cultivating a grudge that would distance her from the one man with whom she was only really compatible.  Ditto for him.  They had a conventional marriage wrecked by impotence on his part and alcoholism on hers.  Where the marriage failed, their intellectual relationship flourished, and was the strongest co-dependency on record.

There was a lot of intellectualism in the air all over the place in the 1970s, to be accurate about it.  Throughout the latter part of the decade, I grew up in the din of all this brain traffic.  I may have been way too young at ten or eleven to grasp the subject matter of all the academic stuff these two, and for that matter much of the well-educated world was going on about at the time, but it might explain why, at an age slightly past theirs back then, I now mull through the used bookstores like a stray animal­­­­, voracious for vintage publications, those luscious treats of almost any sociopolitical subject matter that say home to me.  For some reason, in an indifferent world such as ours, nothing seems to feel better than some hardcover David Halberstam or Kenneth Tynan from 1977 on the E train at day's end.

To be in the presence of my mom and her ex- over the course of a weekend spent at their flat was one of fascinating Rennaisance.  Those two would start the conversation when we arrived, and on they went practically all night.  Discourse was their intercourse, and no one left undersexed. Towards evening, it would take on the form of argument.  They'd raise their voices.  I'd be tucked in bed in the master bedroom at some point, listening like a visitor to a David Susskind panel.  The two kept in fine form, raging their distinct viewpoints.  At some point, they'd unfold the couch, go to their respective sides and peacefully crash 'til well into daylight.   Ultimately, we'd all be up, break our fast with some bagels and cream cheese from the high-price deli on the corner ("the gonniff", he'd growl..), and amidst a later stroll down Eighth and a tour through Brentanoes, the  talk-a-thon continued.  Y'know, for some people, it's skiing, for some, it's stock car races.  For me..?  This was my kind of weekend. They decorated my late 1970s.   Skip the symposiums and events.  The best discourse was the kind you knew how to make at home.

Where does a dog go when his master dies..?  How does his heart and mind deal with the whole thing..?  Does he get angry, the way people do..?  Does he growl outward and turn it inward..?  When this middle-aged ex of hers turned ill and died, my mother was the stray dog.  

It might not have been so starkly alienating, beyond what became a challenged question over the beneficiary in the man's will.  He had a brief subsequent marriage after the divorce.  This led to significant will-based plot twists, and suddenly the long friendship between my mother and her ex's sibling immediately turned to war.  It was an all-Jewish version of The Little Foxes.  While I knew it all for just what it was, it wasn't really about the legalities.  It was about the betrayal.

Not only did I hold no active animosity toward the offenders.  I honestly never expected anything from them.  Of course I was eleven, I was never married, and I never lived with the social or legal expectation of the rewards of enduring such prior wreckage.  But very truthfully.?  This particular bomb that exploded at the reading of the will, nearing the finally incoherent, fatally ill man's passing, somehow stunned me none.  

The greatest wound my mother bore was not in fact the absence of posthumous bounty, promised or not.  It was the stark disappearance of that intimate partner, the one who gave her everything she deeply craved day and night: Shared intellect.  For long as she continued to live, I would never see her fitfully matched again with any such human.  But it did teach me about the greatest kind of intimacy;  The intellectual kind.  For all the talk about sex and relationships out there, intellectual eroticism on the full time scale is a jackpot a lonely dweller will spend his or her life wishing for.  They don't make medical treatments for that, and when they do, I'll be inclined to run the other way.

The summer of '79 was the time of our Six Day War.  It was in that spring that my mother faced the betrayal of "her people", the ones we knew and liked the best and spent time with the most, the man who became more ill and aged by the day, who everyone congregated in imperative concern of, over coffee, talk, dinners, book and movie discussion and the reflexive hard laughter they all needed.  Now it was all gone, and replaced with return phone calls from attorneys.

With us in possession of little cash that summer, my aunt and uncle, a man falling ill himself, took us in for a few weeks at their newly leased condo house in Miami.  If this place didn't look like the set of an Aaron Spelling nighttime series, nothing did.  It was exquisite.  The sale of that Bayside house couldn't have gone that badly.  It was from that remote end my mom got word over the phone that the case was lost.  Our final net result was zero.  It didn't even take six days.  Fixing her anger upon the sibling opponent, she talked to her eleven-year-old son about the possibility of his residing in Florida with his aunt and uncle permanently, while she tracked him down and committed murder.  Somebody, I thought, was watching too many Movies Of The Week.

No one murdered anybody.  We came home to our little dusty-floored Queens abode, and spent our days doing laundry, maybe browsing at Queens Center, a good few trips to the Social Security office in Jackson Heights to square a few things that evidently couldn't be squared, amidst the wild-multicolored and coordinated sets of luxury cars and young fellows' suits along the avenues.  Not too many guys paraded around in athletic gear and flannel shirts back then.  They still dressed to go out.  Maroon was the color of one's car and sport jacket.  The print shirts glowed like gardens.

It was on no uncertain terms, a vacation.  I indulged permissively and affordably in something I just wouldn't be able to do in the school year: The TV I never got to see.  Stuff well after midnight.  I was basically that cat that only wants to see what's in the hallway closet, while no one understands why he's so fascinated with it. The Marcus Welby M.D. re-runs I'd never care for by day were stuff I got turned onto at 2am, amidst a dial of old movies, nightclub and electronics-store commercials, bad public service announcements and The Joe Franklin Show.   It was a carnival of it's own accord.  You didn't need cable, or rock videos.  There was something commanding about local television very late in the pre-dawn hours.  It was somehow more intimate, more humanizing.  It spoke to the alienation of the soul.  

Somewhere past 2am, at least one or two of the few stations that hadn't yet signed off would offer a serving of News Headlines.  Nothing fancy, just some branded logos and that familiar announcer, known for only a few words by day, now intoning the stories of the day.  It was interesting to hear these guys speak at length.   When the station signed off for the night a short time later, that very announcer would, for half a sentence, get personal with the viewer.  He'd say, "on behalf of the entire staff....have a good day..".  How about that.  A human being.

More than a few times, I'd be gazing at the final moments of whatever was on the Channel 2 Late Show at 5:45 in the morning as the sun met the summer horizon.  I'd already caught the rare Channel 5 re-run of The Jack Benny Program and heard Tom Gregory put us all to bed with their newscast and sign-off, complete with that "Feeling Good" public service announcment about physical fitness, scored by that all-too-familiar Chuck Mangione hit.  It played underneath a twelve-year old kid reading a teleprompter message about staying in shape.  As an overweight adolescent looking forward to his next malted at Carvel, all I could dig was the score.  

When life in that Junior High began, all hopes of distingushed collegiate-style life were instantly dashed.  I'd be introduced promptly to a life of threats in hallways, locker rooms, cafeteria lines, on school grounds and off, and a self image I never thought could corrode further.  If Channel 5 hadn't rolled out that nightly hour of M*A*S*H and All In The Family that fall, I swear I'd have killed myself.  You just don't forget a summer that good.

Noah F.