BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I have no doubt that some of you are far too young to have any clue what the hell the title of this blog references. Or, more importantly, my hidden meaning behind it. But, since you, my readers, tend to surprise me at every turn, I could well be wrong and every single one one of you might know exactly what I am trying to say, in which case you can probably just stop reading now and save yourself some time. Or not. I mean, what fun would that be?

At any rate, I suppose you will let me know. You always do…

So, let’s make our traditional left turn at the Jersey turnpike and start somewhere left and slightly above the middle, like usual…

There I sat last night watching the premiere of “168”. Now, don’t go running to the TV guide looking to see if there is a new show you haven’t heard about, because I’m sure you’ve heard of this one, just not by that particular title. It’s actually pretty easy if you do the math – 168 / 24 = 7. So, yeah, what I’m talking about is “24” season 7 (or as they say, “day 7″…) If you happen to be one of the folks who gave up on this series after the mind numbingly repetetive, lackluster, shamelessly predictable, unbelievable (even with suspension of disbelief), and horribly cardboard cutout seasons three through six, I don’t blame you. I almost did so myself. As a matter of fact, I had quite vocally resolved not to waste my time with it ever again. Why I bothered to watch seasons three through six is beyond me. It probably had something to do with brain drain. (At this point I do feel compelled to note that while seasons 3-6 were at best, unimpressive, the first 12 episodes of season 4 DID contain a very shiny bright spot – that being a friend of mine, Alberta Watson, who portrayed Erin Driscoll, head of CTU. She could have kicked Bauer’s ass, and they should have let her… But, that’s just my opinion.)

At any rate, like I said, I wouldn’t blame you at all if you have given up on “24”, 48, 72, ad nauseum. However, after seeing a couple of clips and hearing a fairly well balanced review and interview on NPR, I bought into enough of the hype to give it a go. To my genuine surprise, “the following that took place between the hours of 8AM and 10AM,” last night didn’t suck at all. In fact, they were pretty good. Therefore, I will be parked in front of the “toob” tonight in order to catch, “the following that took place between the hours of 10AM and 12PM.” If those are also blatantly suckless in value, then I am likely to follow it right on round the clock to 8AM once again. Of course, it doesn’t hurt at all that there’s a smokin’ hot, redheaded FBI babe paired up with Bauer this season. Or that she is portrayed by actress Annie Wersching, who grew up right here in Saint Louis (local pride and all, ya’know…). And, we all know my penchant for redheads with strong personalities… (yeah, I know, ‘nother blog…)

On a side note – if some intern at FOX is scouring the internet for references to “24“, 168, what have you, in order to do market research and happens to run across this blog, I have two messages for the powers that be: First, cancelling Firefly was epic fail, kids. You shot that series in the foot, then blamed it for your incompetence and used that as a reason to cancel it. Admit your mistake and fix it. Secondly, where “24” is concerned, tell your writers that it will suck even less if at some point Bauer gets tired and has nappy time. They included this in season one, and that is one of the things that made it believable. Yeah, he can stay up for 24 hours straight, but he can’t be fresh as a daisy the whole time. Give us a break…We’ve all stayed up past midnight at some point in our lives, so we know what kind of effect it has on a person. We are nowhere near as stupid as you think we are…

Now, back to the regularly scheduled rambling…

But, ya’know, I didn’t come here to give you a review of 168 / 7 today…I didn’t even come here to yak about dominos…well, actually I’m lying about that last part. Dominos seem to be a big part of my life at the moment. Everything triggers a memory and there ya’ go…

So, anyway, Network 23…wait, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.

So, anyway, DTV…The wonderful, federally mandated, “Digital Television”… Yeah, okay… So, they are forcing broadcasters to switch to a digital signal, thereby forcing consumers to switch/upgrade/otherwise retrofit their receivers to be able to handle said digital signal. This is all being done in the name of freeing up the analog airwaves for other uses. Not sure why that is, honestly. I mean, why couldn’t the other uses just go ahead and use the digital band and leave well enough alone?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m am not some kind of stick in the mud…well, yeah, maybe I am…but, that’s not the point. Stop getting me sidetracked…What I’m trying to say is that I am certainly not against digital technology. I’m sitting here using a computer, correct? I spent 25 years as a computer technician, and recently discovered that my skills haven’t completely rusted shut – not just yet, anyway. I was even a partner in a recording studio some years back, and for the day, we had the latest and greatest digital equipment available. Yet, we still had clients who insisted on using “tube mics” (analog microphones) and analog tape, because of the ambiance it would lend to the sound…

But, here’s why I am having a bit of a problem with this whole DTV thing – Federal mandate and added cost aside. (I mean, I already have satellite TV, so I’m not actually affected where the whole buying a converter box thing is concerned…) My issue is quality. Yeah. Imagine that.

“But Murv, digital is so much clearer, blah blah blah…”

Is it? One would think, yes. I mean, even I thought it would be. But, last night as I sat watching “168” I was proven wrong. You see, throughout both hours of the program it was plagued with digital dropout, signal loss, bizarre digital artifacts, and yes, the good ole “Max Headroom” syndrome, whereby Jack Bauer spent a good part of the time stuttering across my screen as he jerked about like someone holding on to a bare extension cord.

Some of you old timers are now understanding the reference in the title. Those of you who aren’t are probably following the Max Headroom link and will get it very shortly.

So, here’s my thing… I have no idea what the government plans to do with all of these analog frequencies they are freeing up. I think I saw an article about it once, but quite honestly it wasn’t important enough at the time for me to care and remember what it said. However, if DTV is going to effectively thrust us back into the age of Black and White Cathode Ray Tubes and Rabbit Ears with tin foil (yeah, it was tin before it was aluminum) wrapped around them (something I am, unfortunately, plenty old enough to remember quite vividly), I can see a revolution coming…

Just like in Max Headroom. Beat up Winnebagos and Buses traveling the highways pursued by the FCC in their dark government sedans. Constantly hiding out in alleyways, cranking up retractable mast antennas, and all  manned by cyberpunkish folks like Blank Reg and Dominique (see Max Headroom link). A ragtag group of dissenters, defiantly broadcasting whatever they can on pirated analog frequencies, if for no other reason than to provide a picture that doesn’t jerk around the screen like a frog in a hot frying pan before randomly turning into colorful little squares and jibbering like a CD with a scratch in it.

Hmmmm… I already know what EK looks like in leather. (uh-huh, another blog… and probably not Myspace friendly…) I wonder what I would look like in a purple mohawk and a handful of tattoos? Maybe I should buy myself a used schoolbus and go visit an auction or two. I’m betting analog transmitters are gonna be going cheap…

More to come…

Murv

Nope, not the pizza. They make okay pizza, I guess, but the truth is I got kind of burned out on them quite a few years back. You see, during my college years I had friends who worked at Dominos and we were all the time ending up with pizzas that hadn’t been picked up, or pranked deliveries, or simply an employee discounted “pie” as they called them. We were eating Dominos pizza all the time, so I pretty much had my fill. I mean, I’ll eat it if it’s there, but given my druthers, I’d rather have a Saint Louis Style (thin, crispy crust with provel cheese) from Imo’s or one of the local mom ‘n pop pizzerias.

But, like my usual self, I’m off on yet another tangent. I didn’t come here to talk to you about pizza today. I also didn’t come here to talk to you about the little rectangular tiles with the dots all over them either.

Well, yeah, I guess actually I did plan to talk about the dotted rectangles, but only metaphorically, and just at the beginning. Are you following that? Good, because someone has to. I’m starting to get lost…

Anyway, on with the metaphor. You know how when you’re a kid – or even an adult – you tend not to actually play dominos the way the game is meant to be played? Instead, you spend hours painstakingly lining them all up in intricate patterns, with specifically prescribed distances between each, and then after all that hard work you knock the first one over and watch the 30 second (if you’re lucky and have A LOT of dominos) chain reaction. Go on, admit it. We’ve all done it. Sometimes we even do it with boxes of Hamburger Helper and crap like that you find in the cupboard. Well, at least I do… But I guess we won’t go there…

So anyhow, memories are like that too. You knock one over and the next thing you know there is this whole cascade of memories rattling around in your brainpan. Some good. Some bad. Some funny. Some, not so much. Well, that’s what happened this morning. I was sitting here, minding my own business, taking care of the morning email – well, the night’s email that I was just then seeing in the morning, but…yeah…digressing again – So…There I was… Minding biz… Doing email thing…

That’s when it happened. A particular email from a friend sparked a memory about my wife’s maternal grandfather (now long deceased). It’s kind of a cute memory, and a story I’ve told to many folks to illustrate a point about aging and reality. But, as with Dominos the pizza, and dominos the game, it’s not the actual memory I intend to share today. Yeah, it basically went clack, knocked over another memory, then another, and the next thing I knew there was this other memory left standing – improper spacing of the dominos, I assume, which means I must be having gaps in my memory…but, we won’t go there either…

So… I have absolutely no clue if I have told this story here before or not, but I’m going to tell it again anyway. Why? Because it’s funny and besides, this is my blog so I get to run off at the mouth in it all I want. So there. (hmmmm…wonder why they don’t have just a plain old “sticking tongue out smiley” on this blog interface…)

Okay… On with the tale.

Now, this is a true story. I am telling you that because as you read it and visualize it, you are going to be imagining an episode of The Benny Hill Show or Monty Python going through your head. But, I’m here to tell you this really happened, and there were a whole host of witnesses.

Back when EK’s grandparents were still alive, but most definitely in their waning years, they resided at a very nice assisted living facility. On holidays – Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc – the family would gather out there for a big dinner in the dining room, then retire to their apartment for visiting, etc. This all went on early in our marriage, so EK and I were young and spry back then (trust me, that factoid comes into play later)… Anyway, time marches on and eventually folks pass away, cross over, kick the bucket, expire, or whatever euphemism you wish to apply. In the case of EK’s grandparents, her grandmother went first. Now, as one would expect, and as statistically happens, her grandfather began a steady decline following her loss. After all, his wife of almost 75 years was gone. He ended up moving out of the apartment proper, and into the attached nursing facility. He didn’t last terribly long after that.

Yeah, I know, I said this was a funny story and the above is not funny at all. I realize that. But, we are getting to the funny part and it has nothing to do with death. Well, maybe a little… It actually has to do with life in the face of impending death.

Right around 1 year before EK’s grandfather simply gave up altogether and allowed himself to die, we gathered out at the assisted living facility for Thanksgiving dinner. What with grandma being gone it was a much more somber celebration than it had been in the past, but it was still very nice. At this point, grandpa didn’t move around so good. He could walk, but not a great distance by any means. So, since it was a nice day, as is often the case with Saint Louis around Thanksgiving – fairly cool, but with the sun shining and not bitterly cold – the family decided a nice walk around the “lake” in front of the facility would be in order (actually, where I come from it would be called a pond, but here in Saint Louis they think it is a lake, so I just go along with them). So, with grandpa loaded up in his wheelchair, we set off for a liesurely afternoon stroll.

Now, as much as the family tried to lighten the mood, the tone was still very somber. After all, grandma hadn’t been gone all that long, and holidays were kind of her thing. In fact, she used to “save up” their dining room “meal tickets” so that the family could gather with them. And, from the stories I have heard, grandma used to cook up a storm and put on a hell of spread during the holidays. I met and married EK a bit too late in life to have enjoyed those particular family gatherings, but the get-togethers at the facility were still wonderful.

So anyway, back to the story… We made our way down the hill on one side of the small “lake” then came around the end, and started up the hill that banked the other side. The path itself was a concrete sidewalk so the going was smooth, and the direction we were heading would take us right back to the nursing center, and grandpa’s room. All good. Well, we made it about halfway up this side when everyone decided to stop for a bit to “smell the roses”. Admittedly, the scenery was nice and serene, and we all thought it might be nice to just rest a moment and look out over the “lake”.

We all turned to face the tableau and drink in the splendor of nature. Some geese were flying overhead making geese noises, there were a few wispy clouds in the blue sky…the crisp autumn air was filled with the loamy smells from the carpet of leaves that had fallen off the trees in the small, urban wooded areas at our backs. We were all gathered together, enjoying it as a close knit family unit. It was pretty much “Norman Rockwell Family Postcard Perfect” as we stared out across the glassy water at the bottom of the somewhat steep, grassy incline before us.

It stayed perfect for about 5 seconds, because then I heard the screaming…

Yes, screaming. Well, maybe more like a yell than a scream. In any event is was somewhat weak, but still quite audible and filled with maybe a bit of fear, but mostly what sounded to be complete surprise. And, it seemed to have started nearby, but was now moving away from us…

Wondering what was going on I brought my gaze quickly downward and saw, much to my horror, grandpa, still seated in his wheelchair, arms flailing as he rolled ever faster down the bumpy, grassy hill toward the lake. You see, it seems that my brother-in-law (who shall remain nameless, and I have several so it will be easy for him to remain anonymous) had neglected to set the brake on the wheelchair. Due to our position on the rise, and the fact that he had turned grandpa toward the lake so that he could see what everyone else was enjoying…well, to put it simply when he let go of the handles to point at something, gravity took over, as it tends to do.

Here is where the young and spry comes into play… Quite obviously we were all terrified. Here we have a somewhat frail, 90 year old man, hurtling toward a “lake” in a wheelchair, down an incline, on a crisp autumn day. The water in the “lake” wasn’t exactly warm as you can guess. So, while some gasped and screamed, others of us sprang into action, running headlong down the hill after the wheelchair.

Well, as it turns out, grandpa had way too much of a head start on us, so, weak cry, arms flailing, and everything you can imagine from an episode of one of the aforementioned comedy shows later, he hit the water. Now, grandpa was a very practical and intelligent man, so rather than allow himself to be catapulted across the “lake” when the front wheels of the chair struck the muddy edge, he stuck his feet straight out in front of himself and held on. This manuever saved him from taking a chilly swim, however, he still ended up “wading” so to speak as he slipped down in the chair. When all was said and done, the water ended up at about his knees as I recall.

So, as one could expect, a bit of minor panic ensued. My mother-in-law was extremely concerned for her father, my brother-in-law was concerned – and completely mortified, EK wasn’t far behind me coming down the hill, and my father-in-law and one of my other brothers-in-law who was there that year were neck and neck with me in our race to save gramps.

Arriving at the edge of the “lake” and trying to avoid falling in ourselves, we dragged grandpa out of the water. My father-in-law and brother-in-law got on either side of him and more or less carried him back up the hill as I raced ahead with the wheelchair and soaking wet blankets. When we all reached the top of the hill they deposited gramps back into the chair and he assured us that he wasn’t hurt, but that he was getting cold from being wet, naturally. So, while the rest of the family straightened themselves out and started regaining composure, I lit a fire under my own ass and pushed gramps in his wheelchair as fast as I could up the sidewalk and into the nursing center where we could get him changed and warmed up.

Now, at this point, my own heart was racing and I was deeply concerned. I mean, after all, the man was 90 years old, he was soaking wet up to his kees and damp elsewhere because of the water splashing all over him. It was 45 degrees outside, his blankets were pretty much useless since they were cold and wet, and we were still about 100 yards from the nursing center at the top of the hill.

After we had traveled maybe twenty yards, I started hearing this odd noise coming from gramps. I dug in and pushed faster as I asked, “Are you okay, grandpa?”… I was CPR certified at the time, but really wasn’t in a hurry to put it into practice if you know what I mean. At this point, instead of getting an answer, I noticed that the noise was just getting louder and the wheelchair was starting to vibrate. It was then I realized that grandpa was laughing his ass off. Downright belly laugh guffawing…Almost to the point where he was going to risk not being able to catch his breath… I couldn’t help but start to laugh too. When he was finally able to stifle the laughing for a few seconds he said, “That was fun. Can we do it again?”

With that, we both burst into laughter yet again. We were still chuckling like a couple of wingnuts when I got him into his room and the nurse on duty starting helping him change into some dry clothes.

When the rest of the family arrived only a minute or so behind us, they were still in the concerned mode, and rightfully so. I think perhaps grandpa and I must have appeared to be total idiots to the rest of them because we were still grinning ear to ear, and whenever we looked at each other – or at the brother-in-law who let go of the handles – the chuckling would start all over again. But, he and I knew the reality… In that moment, he felt alive.

It might have been brief and I’m sure it was scary. I know I would have been a bit terrified if it was me in that chair, even at 30 instead of 90, but it still made him feel alive.

That was the one and only time I had seen the man laugh, or even really genuinely smile, since his wife had died. And, the memory of it seemed to be the only thing that made him smile for the year he lived aftwards.

Well, that and a glass of smuggled in Port Wine, but I’ll save that for a different blog, because we have now come back around to the beginning of our chain reaction – a joke about “smuggled booze” is the original domino that sparked my telling of this whole story…

More to come…

Murv