I Say Goodbye

Okay.  I really wanted to like the final Colbert show.  I had expectations. And to be truthful, I answered the phone a couple of times... took my eyes and ears off the TV. Also I was buoyant and a little emotionally intoxicated from the second Knicks win over the Cavaliers.  Factually, I never loved the show in the first place. I sympathize, he tries... but it's a little like being on a date with that charming handsome intelligent man who cracks jokes over dinner and pours your wine correctly... but you can't wait to get home to that hot crazy guitar player who makes you laugh.

I grew up craning my ears to hear the Jack Paar and then Johnny Carson show from my parents' room.  It was like forbidden fruit. Some nights I'd lie on the floor and listen outside their door.   I loved the way the audience  laughed. When I had my own place and a tiny b/w TV I got to watch from a bed on the floor with my guitar player live-in boyfriend.  It was special. 

When Letterman took over it was perfect. Everything about the show-- his guests, his cynicism, his lists, his skits and bits... was perfect. I loved the band.  Hiram Bullock was to become one of my favorite musicians and friends.  He was smart and cool and brilliant.  

In the last years there is too much competition for late night.  You see the same guests on all networks... no loyalty or feuds or even political differences.  Everyone hates Trump with similar ferocity. Who to pick?  Musical guests no longer compel me; they occupy a very short segment. Hosts take up half the show with their monologues. The audience doesn't count as much. 

Colbert is nice.  He's become something of a hero-- a TV martyr. His cancellation is an eerie foreshadowing of the compromised future of media platforms. What is happening here, etc.? I read today about his grief episode... where he shared with Anderson Cooper that his father and two brothers were killed in a plane crash when he was a boy.  Touched me. But he had a mother and many other siblings. Some of them were in the audience tonight and they all seemed wholesome and happy and normal.

Memorial Day is almost upon us.  My father died shortly before his ninety-seventh Memorial Day.  I remembered how I wished he would die in a plane crash.  Not a car accident-- one of his brothers went that way and it was a scandal because he'd disowned his own family. But a plane crash seemed instant and sort of poetic, especially for a former paratrooper who was at home in the sky. It's a terrible guilt but I wanted my mother to have a husband who deserved her kindness and I wanted a 'real' father-- the kind of father maybe Steven Colbert is. 

But the show-- ?  Well, for those of who were hoping for the Pope, we got Paul McCartney.  His facework is marvelously done and he's charming and maybe a NYC legend at the moment... he lives ten blocks away from me.  He once stopped into a club where I was playing on the upper east side... well, he started to, until he was swarmed.  And the Ed Sullivan theatre connection-- the history.  I always actually thought Ed was creepy-- ditto Lawrence Welk, and the children's show hosts-- Soupy Sales, Captain Kangaroo, Ringmaster Claude, even Mr. Rogers (apologies).  But the guests were superb.  No contest.  Immediately recognizable.  Iconic. Variety.  

Maybe there was a  message in the McCartney appearance.  He's eighty-something and promoting his new album.  I wonder if he would have done the show had he no product.  But he reinvents himself.  He goes on. No matter that each reincarnation is that much less stellar than the one before. It's been fifty-six years since the Beatles broke up. Admittedly, Paul played great bass tonight on Hello/Goodbye. Really good.  But for many of us who always preferred Stones to Beatles, our favorite was George.  He was a rebel. Sir Paul is metamorphic and has rounded corners.  You could tell Colbert was thrilled and that was nice.  It made me forget about Jon Batiste whose success baffles me. Everyone wants to be a rockstar--talent or not. Like instant rice-- just stick a bowl and some water in an instagram oven and you have it.

But Colbert will go on. Cancellation is the new black.  It's like death; suddenly people who never cared become your supporters. I actually watched the show tonight-- or some of it.  Isn't that the point of television anyway-- the viewers, the money? I wonder what McCartney was paid and who paid it. Literally a ha'penny in the billion pound bucket of his wealth and continued royalties. Like Bruce they can't stop.  I wonder if the Pope had been on Late Night whether he'd have given the godly finger to the management at CBS... a Fatherly scolding. I'd like to shake the whole damn country. But we're complacent-- we worship mediocrity and elect morons. And we wave goodbye. It's wrong.

Memorial weekend I'll say a prayer for my unhappy misunderstood father. I'll remember all those great guests on the Ed Sullivan show-- Elvis, Little Richard, the 'original' Paul.  The more things multiply the further we are from the originals.  Scroll through the thousands of faces onscreen at any given moment... it's underwhelming. Goodnight, Steven... we'll surely be seeing you. 

Countdown

When I was maybe 4-5 years old, we went on one of those exhausting family educational trips.  These were apparently conceived out of some vague sense of personal neglect. While family memes of the 1950's seem so innocently and traditionally cohesive, parents really had very little idea of what their children were up to on their own. There was a remarkably loose tether of independence: I walked myself back and forth to school at five; in these times that would be a form of neglect or abuse.  

Anyway, once a year or so, we had some arranged pilgrimage to further our historic and patriotic consciousness: Plymouth Rock, Washington D.C., Sleepy Hollow, etc. Eventually it was assumed our school was providing all the necessary education and this tradition evolved solely into mandatory attendance at the annual Army/Navy football game.

But the trip that came to mind today was the one to Sturbridge Village-- probably still intact today, like Skansen in Stockholm. To me, at 4-5, it seemed like some kind of cult with the women in long dresses and strange bonnets and the men with their suspenders and funny accents.  The workshops were cool-- we watched them making soap and candles, weaving cloth, etc. And we were allowed to buy a small souvenir on these trips.  I was super intentional and methodical in the gift shops. It took ages for me to select something on-budget. Tiny things. But here I purchased a small egg timer which consisted of a miniature hourglass mounted in a piece of hand-forged iron. 

Nothing I owned-- no toy had ever provided the utter fascination of this little gadget. I tested it against watches and our old ticking stove-knob; it was pretty accurate.  I held my breath to it, tested the length of my little records. I turned it horizontally, played with its simple physics.  Of course my sister tried to convince my mother it belonged in the kitchen.  Whatever I had, she absolutely needed. But my mother let me keep it in my room where I learned to respect the value of a minute. I didn't particularly like boiled eggs anyway-- they were more like an assignment than a breakfast.

I must have listened today to twenty people remarking on how quickly this year has gone. Yes, I agree, also thinking that for those who have left us, they will remain permanently in 2025.  Their tombstones and memorials will be forever engraved with this number. They will go forward no more.  For the rest of us, our lives continue to be diced into these annual portions which become thinner and thinner as we age. I noticed today how a few of my peers seem to be moving more slowly, more carefully.  A fall, at this temporal moment, can be life-stopping. Maybe the slowed pace makes the actual time passage seem relatively faster... as though the 3-minute egg takes us five minutes now, which results in fewer eggs, translated to minutes.

My beloved neighbor passed in November. The days of agony he endured were slow and painful. The forty days of mourning began to sail by, as the new year loomed.  My Elizabeth-- we left her months ago... Jon Gordon, the Reiners... now Tatiana Schlossberg whose November post was so nationally heartbreaking... she, too, will remain in 2025.

I've been reading the second volume of a Norwegian trilogy which centers on a nationally iconic television producer who may or may not have murdered his wife. It occurs that this was written in a time when the medium of television was central and crucially influential. There were few shows, they were for the most part memorable and great, and we all watched them.  I can't imagine the experience of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan in this time-- or Walter Cronkite on the JFK assassination.  In the 1960's we all sat-- in real time, together.. mourning, celebrating. The collective consciousness had a certain power. In a way the Reiner tragedy has something to do with this former cultural resonance. 

Today I see on one channel alone there will be fifty New Year's Eve entertainers.  It's daunting. I have not even heard of half these performers who will be broadcast worldwide to a media-exhausted audience. Over one million spectators will congregate in Times Square to participate in maybe the world's most watched time ritual. The huge ball is bigger than ever, of course. I will go out and enjoy the fireworks, missing my old bandmates and the umpteen New Year's Eves I got to play a punk rock and roll version of Auld Lang Syne to a room full of drunk dancers. 

Channel after channel broadcasts the sad litany of those who dropped out this year.  We continue to be appalled at the madness which pervades our government. Life goes on... Beyonce has become a billionaire-- even Powerball has ballooned to an obscene monetary prize. Our economy is so bloated we average people cannot process these sums.  And yet we owe more than we earn.  And people are hungry-- some out of greed, some literally starving. Farewell to the poor meaningless penny, to the metrocard and telephone switchboard operators.  

I walk the streets, pregnant in a way with my own nostalgia and poetry.  It comes, like moments-- whether I summon it or not, although I am not sure any of this will actually be delivered.  In addition to the world-stage absolutely thronged with celebrities and superheroes, there is a vast infinite digital universe of performance. Look at me, everyone seems to be saying... or-- yes, I can be you-- I can wear your dress and get my body sculpted to resemble yours.  I can imitate your music and I can use my fortune to own your unique artistic creations.  My name, next to yours, like a museum. Despite all of this, I am trying to quietly log these last countdown minutes, like timing an egg... altogether too many, and never enough.  The 2025 hourglass has surely run its course.