(original post-date: January 5, 2011)
Five or six years ago, I was working regularly with a nonprofit youth drop-in agency based in South Central L.A. Though my role was as a consultant, I was given a desk to call my own, and so I was there, on-site, about two or three times a week.
On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.
Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.
I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.
“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”
“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.
I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).
So, that’s as far as our conversation went.
But it has stayed with me.
… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.
Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.
And I wanted him to be my dad…
But why?
I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.
Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.
So why would I want to replace him?
I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!
Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?
Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…
Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.
Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.
But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.
And he adored her. That part was always clear.
And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.
So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…
I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Showing posts with label television. Show all posts
Monday, January 9, 2012
Monday, June 6, 2011
Monday Reruns: Reflections on a Prime-Time Addiction
(original post-date: June 2, 2010)
Several weeks ago, in my posting entitled Observations from the Niche-Free Zone, I confessed to being an American Idol watcher.
It’s true.
I love the show.
But, I also love my time, and so I am glad the show is over.
What I didn’t confess in that April 21st posting (and, frankly, the context didn’t call for it) is that I also have got caught up occasionally in Dancing with the Stars.
It’s true.
I can be drawn into that show, too.
But, I still love my time, and so it takes a certain amount of talent to draw me in completely.
This year, in DWTS, the talent was awesome when it came down to the bottom three.
And so I watched.
And so… my Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights were a bit “booked” in May.
But, am I wasting my time? I don’t think so. I get too much joy from what I am witnessing. And, in my opinion, joy should never be deemed a waste of time.
A couple years ago, when I was on the East Coast, I had dinner with a friend in the D.C. area. She told me of a man she worked with at the relatively conservative law firm that has employed her for decades. She recounted hushed conversations by the water cooler, her co-worker – this man, high up on the corporate food chain – wanting to sneak in some whispered dialogue about the previous night’s American Idol or Dancing with the Stars episode.
It’s sad to me that a person might feel at risk of being judged negatively simply because he or she enjoys this prime-time entertainment. One could do a lot worse…
When I posted the aforementioned Observations essay and therefore essentially “outed” myself as an Idol watcher, I also shared that there’s a character in my second (not yet published) novel who did a good job of explaining the desire to watch that show. Now that the season’s over, I feel like sharing her words.
So, I’ll set up the scene for you.
The Idol-watching character is Brittany. She’s a pierced, tattooed, heart-on-her-sleeve twenty-something who has endeared herself to Martin, the new neighbor in her Los Feliz apartment building. Martin – the protagonist of my novel – is going through a midlife crisis and has recently moved from the Valley Village house he shared with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Unrelated to all of that, Martin has never watched Idol.
When Brittany mentions “AI” in conversation and Martin doesn’t make the connection, she teases him. In response, he shares that he has no interest in “reality shows.”
This is how Brittany reacts (bouncy from her Mountain Dew buzz):
It’s not a reality show. It’s a talent show. And it’s beautiful. I swear, I’m such a sap. By the final six or seven weeks, I can’t get through an episode without crying. I mean, God, Martin, it’s about dreams. It’s about risk-taking. It’s about taking a lot of shit, putting it on the line, competing with people who have become your newest friends, wanting to win and not wanting anyone else to lose. It’s amazing. It’s people younger than me being so incredibly fucking brave.
I hear you, Brittany, I hear you. Because, I’m also a sap.
Without fail, I cry through the final few weeks of that show.
But is that so surprising?
Absolutely not.
I invented Brittany. She is a part of me.
Just as Martin is.
Martin’s the part of me that thinks it’s all silly and a waste of time.
Several weeks ago, in my posting entitled Observations from the Niche-Free Zone, I confessed to being an American Idol watcher.
It’s true.
I love the show.
But, I also love my time, and so I am glad the show is over.
What I didn’t confess in that April 21st posting (and, frankly, the context didn’t call for it) is that I also have got caught up occasionally in Dancing with the Stars.
It’s true.
I can be drawn into that show, too.
But, I still love my time, and so it takes a certain amount of talent to draw me in completely.
This year, in DWTS, the talent was awesome when it came down to the bottom three.
And so I watched.
And so… my Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights were a bit “booked” in May.
But, am I wasting my time? I don’t think so. I get too much joy from what I am witnessing. And, in my opinion, joy should never be deemed a waste of time.
A couple years ago, when I was on the East Coast, I had dinner with a friend in the D.C. area. She told me of a man she worked with at the relatively conservative law firm that has employed her for decades. She recounted hushed conversations by the water cooler, her co-worker – this man, high up on the corporate food chain – wanting to sneak in some whispered dialogue about the previous night’s American Idol or Dancing with the Stars episode.
It’s sad to me that a person might feel at risk of being judged negatively simply because he or she enjoys this prime-time entertainment. One could do a lot worse…
When I posted the aforementioned Observations essay and therefore essentially “outed” myself as an Idol watcher, I also shared that there’s a character in my second (not yet published) novel who did a good job of explaining the desire to watch that show. Now that the season’s over, I feel like sharing her words.
So, I’ll set up the scene for you.
The Idol-watching character is Brittany. She’s a pierced, tattooed, heart-on-her-sleeve twenty-something who has endeared herself to Martin, the new neighbor in her Los Feliz apartment building. Martin – the protagonist of my novel – is going through a midlife crisis and has recently moved from the Valley Village house he shared with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. Unrelated to all of that, Martin has never watched Idol.
When Brittany mentions “AI” in conversation and Martin doesn’t make the connection, she teases him. In response, he shares that he has no interest in “reality shows.”
This is how Brittany reacts (bouncy from her Mountain Dew buzz):
It’s not a reality show. It’s a talent show. And it’s beautiful. I swear, I’m such a sap. By the final six or seven weeks, I can’t get through an episode without crying. I mean, God, Martin, it’s about dreams. It’s about risk-taking. It’s about taking a lot of shit, putting it on the line, competing with people who have become your newest friends, wanting to win and not wanting anyone else to lose. It’s amazing. It’s people younger than me being so incredibly fucking brave.
I hear you, Brittany, I hear you. Because, I’m also a sap.
Without fail, I cry through the final few weeks of that show.
But is that so surprising?
Absolutely not.
I invented Brittany. She is a part of me.
Just as Martin is.
Martin’s the part of me that thinks it’s all silly and a waste of time.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday Reruns: Common Idiosyncrasies
(original post-date: January 27, 2010)
What is it about bubble wrap?
I mean, really. What’s the deal? Why is it that we all want to pop it? What is the weird thrill we get from that routine?
I can’t figure it out.
Sure, it’s kinda gratifying to hear the sound. That POP. And maybe there’s something about de-activating each bubble so it will never pop again. But… seriously: what’s the deal?
Has there been a study? I wonder. And wouldn’t it be cool, by the way, if the National Institutes of Health actually put out grant money to find out why we all like to pop bubble wrap? If that ever happened (if the NIH actually invested in the research), I’d take it as a good sign. I’d take it to mean that the national economy had bounced back and there was finally peace in the Middle East.
… It’s been a long time since I thought about writing for television. It's also been a while since Frasier was part of the prime-time line-up. But I had this great idea once…
What if Niles Crane (Frasier’s brother, in case you lost your cliff notes) discovered bubble wrap… And: what if he had no idea that other people liked it, too.
Think of it: Niles Crane with bubble wrap.
Niles Crane not knowing of the common idiosyncrasy.
Can you imagine?
I envision him with a small square of bubble wrap in the side pocket of his newly dry-cleaned Armani blazer.
I see him entering Café Nervosa and becoming quickly giddy after surreptitiously putting his hand in his pocket and doing a quick POP.
“Ooh!” he says, cutting himself short.
Later that same day…
I see him moving about furtively in the kitchen of Frasier’s condo. Daphne is there, and because it’s the 5th season, Niles’ crush is obvious to everyone but her. So, there they are, “doing the dance,” and for whatever reason, Niles’ jacket pocket hits the center island every so often.
“POP!”
“Niles!” Daphne says, responding to the sound, her tone vaguely flirtatious.
“POP!”
“What am I hearing?” she asks then, her smile charming.
Daphne gets that knowing look on her face.
(She’s psychic, you know.)
“Is that… bubble wrap?” she asks, raising her eyebrows seductively.
“What are you talking about?” Niles replies, his face white.
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Oh…. Nothing.”
“Oh!” Daphne says, scolding him in the way he craves. “Don’t say nothing! There’s something there! I think it’s bubble wrap!”
“Bubble wrap?” Niles repeats, his eyes melting (his brain genuinely not comprehending the common popularity of bubble wrap).
“Cough it up now!” she insists.
Daphne then meets Niles’ hand as they extract, together, the small square from his pocket.
“Bubble wrap!” Daphne exclaims. “It’s so much fun to pop it!”
“Yes,” says Niles, looking lovingly at her as they pop some bubbles together.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
What is it about bubble wrap?
I mean, really. What’s the deal? Why is it that we all want to pop it? What is the weird thrill we get from that routine?
I can’t figure it out.
Sure, it’s kinda gratifying to hear the sound. That POP. And maybe there’s something about de-activating each bubble so it will never pop again. But… seriously: what’s the deal?
Has there been a study? I wonder. And wouldn’t it be cool, by the way, if the National Institutes of Health actually put out grant money to find out why we all like to pop bubble wrap? If that ever happened (if the NIH actually invested in the research), I’d take it as a good sign. I’d take it to mean that the national economy had bounced back and there was finally peace in the Middle East.
… It’s been a long time since I thought about writing for television. It's also been a while since Frasier was part of the prime-time line-up. But I had this great idea once…
What if Niles Crane (Frasier’s brother, in case you lost your cliff notes) discovered bubble wrap… And: what if he had no idea that other people liked it, too.
Think of it: Niles Crane with bubble wrap.
Niles Crane not knowing of the common idiosyncrasy.
Can you imagine?
I envision him with a small square of bubble wrap in the side pocket of his newly dry-cleaned Armani blazer.
I see him entering Café Nervosa and becoming quickly giddy after surreptitiously putting his hand in his pocket and doing a quick POP.
“Ooh!” he says, cutting himself short.
Later that same day…
I see him moving about furtively in the kitchen of Frasier’s condo. Daphne is there, and because it’s the 5th season, Niles’ crush is obvious to everyone but her. So, there they are, “doing the dance,” and for whatever reason, Niles’ jacket pocket hits the center island every so often.
“POP!”
“Niles!” Daphne says, responding to the sound, her tone vaguely flirtatious.
“POP!”
“What am I hearing?” she asks then, her smile charming.
Daphne gets that knowing look on her face.
(She’s psychic, you know.)
“Is that… bubble wrap?” she asks, raising her eyebrows seductively.
“What are you talking about?” Niles replies, his face white.
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Oh…. Nothing.”
“Oh!” Daphne says, scolding him in the way he craves. “Don’t say nothing! There’s something there! I think it’s bubble wrap!”
“Bubble wrap?” Niles repeats, his eyes melting (his brain genuinely not comprehending the common popularity of bubble wrap).
“Cough it up now!” she insists.
Daphne then meets Niles’ hand as they extract, together, the small square from his pocket.
“Bubble wrap!” Daphne exclaims. “It’s so much fun to pop it!”
“Yes,” says Niles, looking lovingly at her as they pop some bubbles together.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
For the Love of Rob
Five or six years ago, I was working regularly with a nonprofit youth drop-in agency based in South Central L.A. Though my role was as a consultant, I was given a desk to call my own, and so I was there, on-site, about two or three times a week.
On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.
Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.
I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.
“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”
“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.
I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).
So, that’s as far as our conversation went.
But it has stayed with me.
… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.
Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.
And I wanted him to be my dad…
But why?
I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.
Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.
So why would I want to replace him?
I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!
Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?
Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…
Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.
Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.
But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.
And he adored her. That part was always clear.
And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.
So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…
I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.
On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.
Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.
I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.
“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”
“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.
I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).
So, that’s as far as our conversation went.
But it has stayed with me.
… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.
Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.
And I wanted him to be my dad…
But why?
I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.
Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.
So why would I want to replace him?
I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!
Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?
Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…
Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.
Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.
But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.
And he adored her. That part was always clear.
And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.
So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…
I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.
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