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Monday, January 7, 2013
Time was, Bobby and I were the only two people either one of us knew who were watching this show. Nobody else could be bothered. Hell, nobody else seemed to know it was on. We had it all to ourselves, a tiny park of wit and civility surrounded by acres and acres of ka-pow action shows, over-miked sitcoms, and whatever else sells deodorants and laxatives these days.
Now, they’ve gone and paved our little paradise and put up a parking lot. And as you very well know, if you build it—a parking lot, I mean—they will come. And come and come and come. Even if there isn’t enough room for all the cars.
It might be time for me to stop watching.
This has happened to me before. Some years ago, HBO came out with that show about life in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. I watched that one, and I was enjoying it, too, until I started seeing how some of my friends and neighbors were getting real proprietary over it, like it was their story, like it was all about them and what they had gone through. It didn’t help if you tried to point out that they weren’t black or that they didn’t know which end to blow on a horn or that they had only just moved here from Massachusetts seven months after the flood waters had receded. That was their life, man, up there on that screen, with all of its heartaches and passing joys and more heartaches and disenfranchisements and callous beatings from the man! Damn.
Lot of power in that TV. Somebody ought to try to channel it for good.