TV is Dead: Long Live TV!

For a decade or so when I was young, I didn’t have a television machine. It wasn’t because I have a philosophical argument with mass media – I don’t. In fact, I’ve always been one of the cheerleaders – even back then. Nor was it merely a sign of the times; despite popular mythology, even the most dedicated hippies of the Stoned Age watched television. My situation was simple economics. I couldn’t afford one in university, and it just got to be a habit. As a result, I have no burning nostalgia for the days of Everybody Loves Friends TV. To me, network television was just another brick in the media’s mind-numbing wall. So, it’s with no emotion whatsoever that I can report the imminent death of television, and unlike Mark Twain’s premature demise, this is no exaggeration.

Let me clarify. I’m not saying that those shiny screens we’ve got all over the place are going to follow the dinosaurs into extinction. Absolutely not. Actually; I think we’re going to accumulate even more. They’re going to get bigger. They’re going to get smaller. They’re going to be everywhere; and soon it’ll be impossible to escape their reflected glow. But they’re not going to be the kind of television anybody born in the 20^th century remembers. Those times are gone and soon to be forgotten.

Way back in the day, when Milton Berle and Lucille Ball ruled the airwaves like media admirals, television was structured the same way as radio. There were local programs of regional interest, but the national news and hardcore entertainment was provided by the networks. We lived in a one-size-fits-all culture back then, and the whole family watched TV – together. So when Lucy had “some ‘splaining to do” on Monday night, literally millions of people saw her do it and got the joke. Network television built its power from those numbers and the massive advertising revenue they generated. It was a lucrative arrangement, and TV to you and me was free.

Then along came cable. Suddenly, media moguls discovered that the public would pay for television. What a novel idea! Cable TV became the value-added medium that radio never had been. People were willing to shell out substantial bucks for a few extra beyond-the-rabbit-ears channels and consistent sound and picture quality. Within a couple of years, North America was wired up and life was good in media land.

Then along came Ted Turner, a guy who made a billion dollar career out of thinking outside the box. In the early 70s, he figured out that the huge advertising dollars the big three networks were generating was simply a numbers game. He knew that if he could broadcast his local station, WTCG, nationally, like the networks did through their affiliates, he could produce those numbers also and the ad revenue they generated. Unfortunately, Ted didn’t have a network, or any affiliates or even very much money. However, Ted realized he didn’t need any of those things because he could use the TV cables that local media companies had been stringing up all over the continent. Those cables were hardwired into Ted’s potential national audience. In 1976, the FCC approved Ted’s plan to broadcast WTCG nationally through hundreds of local cable networks, and the first Superstation was born.

From there, the floodgates were open. Soon there were other superstations—notably, WGN Chicago and, of course, CNN. By the time Bill Clinton was in the White House, everybody and his friend had a specialty channel. At the turn of the century, the 500 channel universe was alive and thriving and, ironically enough, already dying, as technology began to outrun the simple bit of coaxial cable that spawned it. The Internet, once hardwired into your home or office was going wireless and when Stephen Jobs introduced the iPhone the revolution was on.

Today, as wireless communication grows, televisions are becoming empty receptacles – mere screens that host video games, iTunes, YouTube, Netflix etc. etc. More and more people are choosing what they watch– and when they watch it– without reference to what television stations or networks are broadcasting. Soon, that 60-inch big screen will be a slave to your smartphone, networks will produce pay as you play content only, and local stations, if they’re smart, will return to what they do best– local news and information.

By the time Lucy and Desi celebrate their 70^th anniversary of reruns, nobody’s going to remember how we used to watch them, and television, as our generation knew it, will be dead as disco.

I Regret Nothing

I’ve missed a lot of things in my life: Elvis, a ballgame at the old Yankee Stadium, Heather McTavish (not her real name) and probably the Pyramids — if they don’t quit screwing around in North Africa. These things are in no particular order and … oh, well! you win some, you lose some. Life is, at best, a coin toss, and 50% or better is success. After all, I’ve done a few other things that are going to surprise the hell out of the student volunteers when life finally lands me in the nursing home. They’ll probably think I’m lying.

Personally, I don’t regret the things I haven’t done. Chasing retroactive rainbows is not my style. However, if Heather showed up tomorrow, I’d probably give it a shot, and who wouldn’t want to see a resurrected Elvis? My point is, on the expressway of life, you might miss an off ramp every once in awhile, but so what? There’s always a different one down the road.

However, there are certain things that I have actively pursued that simply haven’t worked out. I used to think I needed to try harder or prioritize or some other such nonsense, but I learned early on that this was not the case. For example, when I was a kid, there was a seawall which was the double-dog-dare-you macho challenge of my teenage years. The object was to walk a concrete wall that separated the Pacific Ocean from a milder tidal pool – there and back again. At high tide, the water swept back and forth over the top of the wall; at low tide, there was a 12 foot drop to the rocks below — and in between, the ocean battered and sprayed itself relentlessly across the concrete. However, even though I’m scared of heights, bone-crunching surf and a number of other things that cause bodily injury, I desperately wanted to “walk the wall,” as we used to say. I never did. At the time, every time I went past the wall or joined the crowd to watch somebody else try to break their neck, my young man self esteem took a kicking. This was especially true one after-school afternoon when good old what’s-her-name (I think Carolyn?) did it. At fourteen, skulking is not the better part of valour.

Then an odd thing happened. Semesters changed, somebody discovered that Paul McCartney had died; somebody else discovered Let It Bleed and everybody forgot about “walking the wall.” I realized then that the gods had been protecting me from myself. If I had put one pinky toe on that wall, I’d have crashed head first into Valhalla, and any macho points I might have gained would have been wasted at the funeral.

So what have we learned, boys and girls?

Sometimes in life, we miss things, but rather than waste a bunch of time on regret, the best thing to do is keep on moving. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. I don’t believe in fate or destiny or any of that other hocus-pocus, but I’m old enough to realize that if you’re instincts tell you no, don’t tempt the gods or you’re going to have to live with the consequences.

So, as far as I’m concerned, I’m never going to own the motorcycle that poverty denied me when I was young. One hint of two-wheeled transportation and there wouldn’t be enough left of me to be an organ donor. Nor am I ever going to play football again. I still have 202 never broken bones and I’d like to take that stat to the grave. And the gods don’t merely punish you with physical harm, either. I’ve tried a million times to read Moby Dick, but since it never worked out, now, I plan to just keep it that way. In fact, for years, I tried to watch a complete production of Othello: television, movies, live theatre, even puppets (if I could have got hold of some) but, strangely, it has never worked out. I believe the gods are trying to tell me something. So for the last few decades and from here on in, Iago, Desdemona and the mighty Moor – you’re on your own.

Life Is Too Short…Not!

I’m going to tell you a secret that’s going to shake up your world if not actually change your life. It’s one of those things that nobody thinks about until it’s too late, but because I’m a good guy, I’m going to give you the heads up. Make of it what you will; but first, a little background.

Ever since the Stoned Age, all kinds of normally sensible people have been yipping about how short life is. Used as an all-purpose excuse for juvenile behaviour, in the ensuing decades, “Carpe diem” was repeated so often it became the mantra of the second half of the 20^th century — and beyond. Here in 2013, it’s considered an irrefutable truth, bestriding our culture like the Colossus of Rhodes.

Crap! The real truth is life is the longest thing you’re ever going to do.

I’m not going to argue the metaphysics of eternal consciousness. That’s for sophomore philosophers with time on their hands. My point is much simpler than that. The reality is here you are, and until your bodily functions cease to function, here is where you’re going to stay. Even though the length of your life is a tremor in the earthquake we call history, it’s all you’ve got, and you should treat it with some respect.

The problem is most contemporary people are so obsessed with their lack of time that they completely forget about the quality of life. They’ve turned what should be a series of wonderful adventures into a putt and bounce game of off-handed actions and unintended consequences. Metaphorically speaking, the result is we spend most of our lives trying to pay for the meal we never planned to have in the first place — because some idiot told us life’s too short to do otherwise.

For example, losing your virginity is one of the biggies. It’s a magical moment that is literally a once-in-a-lifetime experience. One would think there would be some pomp and circumstance to it; at the very least, a drum roll. However, for most of us, it was a fumble/stumble extended cuddle that got out of hand. We definitely remember where and when and think fondly of our partner, from time to time, but most of us can’t accurately conjure up a face. In general, people have more details about their 40^th birthday party (and not just because they have photos) — they probably spent more time planning it.

It’s the same with the jobs we do. I’m constantly struck by how many people spend their lives hating their careers or the lack there of. The coulda/woulda/shoulda of gainful employment has almost become a cliché in contemporary society. I understand that not every accountant can be a lion tamer. However, just because you can’t tame the lion, that doesn’t mean you have to spend your life doing something completely different. Join the circus, for God’s sake; at least you’ll get close. After all, unless your dad’s name is Bill Gates, a job is going occupy a third of your life. “Close” counts! The formula for misery is the Monty Python approach to career management.

It’s the same with our homes, our friends, our families, the junk we eat for breakfast and on and on. For the most part, we live off the top of our heads because we’re convinced “life is too short” to pause its relentless path for five seconds to think about what we’re doing.

Nobody goes to a travel agent, tosses a credit card on the desk and says, “Send me somewhere!” We think about it, ask around, do some planning; not because life is too short to miss that fantastic destination but because our two week vacation is too precious to screw up. Yet, for the other fifty weeks of the year, we mostly settle for mediocre when a modicum of planning would give marvelous results.

Life is not too short. Actually, if we’d quit wasting time chasing, catching and suffering the consequences of instant gratification and spent more time dealing with the stuff that really matters, we’d all think it was just the right size.

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