On Television and nostalgia

And you could even argue that a great deal of this blog is dependent on television as a common cultural text. Note: always describe things as texts when attempting to write a graduate level thesis. I believe Shakespeare captured it with a bit more flair in As You Like it than all the dreary literary critics who followed him:

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

And that brief quote darlings clearly shows why it is a good thing to occasionally turn off our dear friend the television and pick up a book. Anyhow, the original point was something along the lines of this very blog needing a common cultural text of television to make jokes about the Snorks, Inspector Gadget, Duck Tales, Care Bears et al. I have a feeling that if I used Ulysses or even a contemporary classic like Beloved as a common text I would find myself preaching to a rather empty choir loft beyond a few graduate students who would profess their love for the high modernist tome or the lyrical language of dear Miss Morrison.

Home Improvement is a much more universal tool for describing my housing troubles than Song of Solomon. Wilson, standing on the other side of the fence makes more sense than Rabbit running down to talk with his local pastor. Which, to that point, our toilet overflowed again tonight, despite the fact that we had a plumber fix it. And, at some point as I was hauling the mop upstairs, in my sweatshirt and long pants because we can't turn up the heat, that this home ownership thing is a damn racket. American dream my ass. Thank the good Lord the real American Dream now is to be famous, even if it's only for fifteen seconds. I recommend becoming independently wealthy before you ever buy a home because the cost of keeping it functional will sink you faster than the Titanic and without the symphony playing.

In my mind, television winds up doing double duty in most households. We are simultaneously inspired and depressed by it. We see people on television, particularly the reality TV craze, and think that perhaps we could join them in the world of fame, or perhaps we watch a transcendent athlete like Michael Jordan and then go out in the yard and shoot hoops. However, we are simultaneously often discouraged by what we watch on television. We watch other talented individuals doing things with the same slack jawed amusement that our parents feared. Is it better to watch someone dance or to learn how to do the damn thing yourself? But who has the time or the energy? How different are the stories on television than the ones we used to hear from books? What makes Peter Pan the book so much better than Hook? Pure snobbery? Perhaps. I'd argue, and did previously, that good television and good books both exist. It's merely a matter of cultivating a taste for what is fine and good.

Note: A good start would be to read the finest critics of both television and literature. Snobs don't exist in vacuums. They become snobs by studying a hell of a lot harder than your garden variety individual. Our current cultural disdain for cultural elites seems a bit misguided. I'd rather have the plumber fix my shower than a roofer. Of course, the plumber didn't do the damn job either so perhaps, in the spirit of being a true self-made American man, I should just do it myself. It's like I always say to S, "I got my master's degree so that I can pay other people to fix my stuff." Of course, my master's degree is entirely useless when it comes to monetary gain, and the real reason that I shy away from home improvement projects is that I take to them like a hippo takes to people wandering through his patch of grass...Not well.

Anyhow, not sure I've said anything of real consequence herein, but at least you got some Shakespeare. And I've got to go check and make sure that my bathroom is not flooded again and making more water spots in the ceiling below. I have a sinking feeling that real life is going to turn out to be a hell of a lot less entertaining than what I've seen in movies....