by John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
"Are you comfortable now?"
"Yes, Doctor. Thank you." I stretched out on the couch, took a puff from my cigar and readied myself.
"You know, of course, that I am just a regular practitioner, and not a psychiatrist?"
"Yes, Doctor, but you are the only medical professional I trust. After all, you're the last of an old breed. You're the only M.D. left, that I'm aware of, who still treats his patients like human beings and doesn't lecture them as if they're children."
It was true. The Doctor (capital D intended) had served my neighborhood for decades. In some cases he even made house calls. And he wasn't the type to lecture you on the evils of alcohol, tobacco and firearms. He was a regular guy. Heck, you could even smoke in his waiting room, and in case he made a prognosis that wasn't, let us say, very optimistic, he'd offer you a shot of Jack Daniels from a bottle he kept in his desk draw. I have an aunt who is 97 years old. She has smoked her whole life. The last time she visited the Doctor her son pulled the Doctor aside and expressed a concern about my Aunt's continuing to smoke. "Are you kidding?" responded the Doctor. "If she stops smoking the shock to her system will kill her."
The Doctor had no shortage of patients, either. As I said, he was a guy you could really trust. So, even though he wasn't a shrink per se, I knew I could confide in him without receiving the usual lecture. He poured me, and himself, a shot of bourbon. He lit my cigar and told me to relax. "Now," he said, "tell me what's been troubling you."
Nightmares. For weeks I'd been having the same disturbing dreams. But these were not the typical kind, like the roller coaster sailing off the tracks, or showing up at the office without trousers, or opening up the liquor cabinet only to find it empty. Oh, no, these were very different.
"Tell me," said the Doctor.
"They begin with me being back in the '70s," I confided. "I'm at the front door of a popular disco with a girl I asked out on a date. There is a line. When we finally get to the front some thug at the door in a leather jacket asks me for $25. He says it's a 'cover charge.' 'A cover charge?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? Isn't my money good at the bar? And with what you charge for a drink my whole paycheck will be gone in an hour anyhow.' The thug summons a bouncer and the dream ends before I can learn what happens next."
The Doctor reflected for a moment and said, "There is nothing unusual about a 'cover charge.'
In fact there is no shortage of dives that continue the practice. What else do you dream?"
"Next I'm at the airport, about to embark to an exotic place for a desperately needed vacation. After waiting on a long line I finally get to the ticket counter. The airline agent checks my passport, my driver's license, my flight reservation and issues me a boarding pass. As I place my luggage on the conveyor the agent says 'Wait, you have to pay a separate luggage fee. Luggage fee?' I say. 'Why should I pay that? I already paid the travel agent in full.' The agent panics, pushes a button, and six Homeland Security Officers converge on me. At this point I wake up and wonder if I ever did go on that vacation."
"I see," said the Doctor. "But you know, these surcharges are now commonplace. What else do you dream?"
"For forty-two years I was a season-ticket holder for the New York Jets. Every year they sent me the forms to renew my tickets for the next season. Year after year, first when they played in Shea Stadium and later when they moved to the New Jersey Meadowlands, I dutifully and loyally sent them ever-increasing sums of money so I could watch my team play. Every season the price of tickets increased and every season I paid whatever they asked for the tickets. This year I received a notice that next year I have to pay not only for the tickets, but for the right to purchase those tickets. Something called a 'personal seat license.' They want $10,000 per seat. I have two seats. So I have to pay $20,000, not for the tickets, but for the right to buy the tickets. By the way, the price of the tickets themselves has again increased. So in the dream I'm seated before a loan officer in my bank awaiting a decision on my loan application when I suddenly wake up in a pool of sweat. I never do find out if I was approved."
The Doctor nodded. "I think I could use another shot of bourbon. How about you?"
After we consumed the bourbon the Doctor asked me to continue.
"Here's the worst of it, Doctor," I said. "Last night I dreamed it was April 15th and my State income taxes were due. I wrote out a hefty check and stuffed it into an envelope with my return. After mailing it I returned home and put on the television where I learned that if you do not file your return electronically you must pay an additional $10 fee to the State to process your paper return. Again I awoke in a cold sweat. I hadn't sent the additional $10, and as I figured it that $10 would mushroom into $20, $30, $40 or more by the time the State got done with it."
The Doctor remained silent. "You see, Doc?" I said, "I'm becoming more and more deranged."
"No," said the Doctor. "I fear this is a case of clairvoyance."
"Clairvoyance?"
"Yes," said the Doctor. "You see, the Governor's budget does contain such a provision about the filing of taxes."
"You mean I gotta pay a tax to pay my tax."
The Doctor did not respond. He stood up and headed for the door. "Where are you going," I asked.
"I need to buy more whiskey," he said.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Lights in a Box
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
This is my first law of cable television programming: The more channels that are provided by the cable company the less there is to watch. The past few days provide perfect examples. Yesterday was Valentine's Day. In the old pre-cable days, when there were available only a half-dozen or so channels in the New York City area, at least one of those channels would have had programming that recognized the special day. A classic romantic movie, such as, let's say, Casablanca, would traditionally be aired. But yesterday not one of the nearly 200 cable stations provided by my local cable company saw fit to present such a movie. In fact, on a day set aside for love and romance, the American Movie Classics (a misnomer if ever there was one) channel spent the whole day airing reruns of three of the most violent movies ever made: Casino, The Godfather, and The Godfather II.
I have nothing against these movies. They are, despite the graphic violence, very fine movies with outstanding casts. But on Valentine's Day?
And take Lincoln's Birthday, February 12th. This year it was even more special since it was the bicentennial of Lincoln's birth. Yet all evening long and into the late night I searched in vain for those old movie classics that so inspired me as a child: Young Mr. Lincoln (with Henry Fonda) and Abe Lincoln in Illinois (with Raymond Massey). Not even something of more recent vintage as Gore Vidal's excellent fictional biography of Lincoln could be found. Instead we were treated to rerun after rerun of Rambo I and Rambo II.
Maybe I am getting old and maybe these old movies no longer command the same attention they once did. Or maybe I've become so old that movies like Casino and Rambo have replaced my idea of a classic. Maybe Casino and Rambo are now to a new generation the new "old" classics, my idea of a classic having been relegated to the status of what silent movies once were for me. But with all these new cable stations now available, some supposedly devoted to old movie classics, you still would think that at least somewhere one of those old gems would be presented.
Alas, all of this seems symptomatic of a larger pathology: a nation where the evident majority is transfixed by programs such as American Idol, various types of Survivor shows, and Judge Judy spin-offs. People have seemed more worried about who Donald Trump will hire or fire than they are about their own lives.
Of course, this pathology is not new. Fifty years ago Edward R. Murrow said of television: "This instrument can teach, it can illuminate, yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wires and lights in a box."
Fifty years later, it is pretty clear how humans are determined to use it. At any given hour on any given day, just use your remote to scan all the programming opportunities afforded by the cable company. It's depressing. Even more depressing is that, unlike fifty or even twenty-five years ago, you have to pay for this programming.
So what did I finally watch on Valentine's Day? Reruns of Hogan's Heroes, of course. At least they weren't violent.
This leads me to the second law of cable television programming: There's a sucker born every day.
A Resident of Woodside
This is my first law of cable television programming: The more channels that are provided by the cable company the less there is to watch. The past few days provide perfect examples. Yesterday was Valentine's Day. In the old pre-cable days, when there were available only a half-dozen or so channels in the New York City area, at least one of those channels would have had programming that recognized the special day. A classic romantic movie, such as, let's say, Casablanca, would traditionally be aired. But yesterday not one of the nearly 200 cable stations provided by my local cable company saw fit to present such a movie. In fact, on a day set aside for love and romance, the American Movie Classics (a misnomer if ever there was one) channel spent the whole day airing reruns of three of the most violent movies ever made: Casino, The Godfather, and The Godfather II.
I have nothing against these movies. They are, despite the graphic violence, very fine movies with outstanding casts. But on Valentine's Day?
And take Lincoln's Birthday, February 12th. This year it was even more special since it was the bicentennial of Lincoln's birth. Yet all evening long and into the late night I searched in vain for those old movie classics that so inspired me as a child: Young Mr. Lincoln (with Henry Fonda) and Abe Lincoln in Illinois (with Raymond Massey). Not even something of more recent vintage as Gore Vidal's excellent fictional biography of Lincoln could be found. Instead we were treated to rerun after rerun of Rambo I and Rambo II.
Maybe I am getting old and maybe these old movies no longer command the same attention they once did. Or maybe I've become so old that movies like Casino and Rambo have replaced my idea of a classic. Maybe Casino and Rambo are now to a new generation the new "old" classics, my idea of a classic having been relegated to the status of what silent movies once were for me. But with all these new cable stations now available, some supposedly devoted to old movie classics, you still would think that at least somewhere one of those old gems would be presented.
Alas, all of this seems symptomatic of a larger pathology: a nation where the evident majority is transfixed by programs such as American Idol, various types of Survivor shows, and Judge Judy spin-offs. People have seemed more worried about who Donald Trump will hire or fire than they are about their own lives.
Of course, this pathology is not new. Fifty years ago Edward R. Murrow said of television: "This instrument can teach, it can illuminate, yes, and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it to those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wires and lights in a box."
Fifty years later, it is pretty clear how humans are determined to use it. At any given hour on any given day, just use your remote to scan all the programming opportunities afforded by the cable company. It's depressing. Even more depressing is that, unlike fifty or even twenty-five years ago, you have to pay for this programming.
So what did I finally watch on Valentine's Day? Reruns of Hogan's Heroes, of course. At least they weren't violent.
This leads me to the second law of cable television programming: There's a sucker born every day.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Welcome to the Digital Age
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
(For Exclusive Use of the Queens Gazette)
The phone rang at an unusually late hour, meaning only one thing--Vernon Jackson, my lifelong friend, needed help. "Have you hooked your television to the digital converter box yet?" he asked.
I explained to Vernon that because I received my TV signal through a local cable company, I had no need for a converter box. But knowing what a sports fanatic he is, I expressed surprise that he had not yet himself subscribed to cable television. "Oh, it's not for me," said Vernon, "it's for my landlady, Mrs. Lowery. She still gets her television the old-fashioned way. When she heard that she would need a converter box to get her signal, she sent for and received one of those $40 discount cards from the government. I took it to Best Buy and bought a box for her, but for the life of me I can't figure out how to connect this thing to her television."
Despite the hour I agreed to go over to Vernon's place to see if I could be of any assistance. Vernon lived nearby in one of the old Mathews Flats on Skillman Avenue. For years he had rented an upstairs flat from the widowed Mrs. Lowery. In minutes I was greeted at the front door by Vernon and his dog, Rawson. He ushered me into the front room where Mrs. Lowery was seated on a sofa, her cat, Bliss, sleeping peacefully on her lap. We exchanged pleasantries and Vernon motioned me to a corner of the room where the old television, equipped only with a rabbit-eared antenna, sat atop a small bookcase. Beneath it was the converter box and what appeared to be a dozen tangled wires. A look of frustration was evident on Vernon's face. "I've tried everything," he said.
Now anyone the least bit acquainted with me knows full well that I have no aptitude whatever for things electronic. But I offered to give it a try. "Where are the instructions?" I asked with a feigned air of confidence. Vernon retrieved the cardboard box that had packaged the device and withdrew the instructions. "Did you even bother to read these?" I asked with an equally feigned air of disdain. "I did, I did" insisted Vernon. He handed me the instruction booklet. It consisted of 48 pages, half English half Spanish. A separate sheet, labeled "Quick Setup Guide," was inserted in the booklet. I looked at the booklet and then at the Quick Setup insert. "Let's start with the insert," I decided.
An hour later I gave up on the insert and reached for the booklet. Mrs. Lowery brought us coffee. Vernon and I were seated on the floor beneath the television, which was turned about so we'd have access to the set's connections. The converter came with a red wire, a yellow wire and a white wire, but no similarly color-coded entry ports existed on the back of the television. And there were two black cables. There seemed to be too many wires altogether. Nevertheless, we had exhausted every possible connection to no avail. "I guess we'll have to read the booklet after all," I said. I detected a smirk from Vernon. Rawson yawned and repaired to the other side of the room to sleep. Mrs. Lowery returned to her seat on the sofa.
The first three pages of the instruction booklet consisted of the usual "Important Safety Instructions." "We can skip these," I said. The fourth page was the Introduction, which thanked us for buying the machine. It also contained a Special Note which stated that "Digital TV broadcasts require an adequate signal strength from the antenna." I looked at Vernon. "Are you sure the signal is adequate?" Vernon looked at Mrs. Lowery. "Never had a problem before," she said calmly.
Next came the Table of Contents, then two pages devoted to the remote control, and another page of schematics. Finally, we arrived at the section concerning the connection to the TV. "Here we go," I said.
The first part of this section contained three pages of schematics and technical jargon. Then came three pages labeled "Remote Control Overview," one page labeled "Zoom Functions," which prompted Vernon and me to look at each other blankly, and finally several pages labeled "Main Menu." We looked carefully through this section, which included subsections entitled Auto Program, Auto Scan Digital Channels, Manual Channel Set, Password Code, Parental Control Settings, Closed Caption, Language, Sleep Timer, Smart Antenna (Optional), Time Zone, TV Aspect Ratio, and Reset Default Settings (What would someone like Mrs. Lowery need with all this stuff, we wondered), but still we could find nothing about connecting the converter to the television. There followed a Trouble Shooting Guide, an Index and a Limited Warranty page. Here we reached the point where the instructions began again in Spanish. "Can you read Spanish?" Vernon ventured.
We returned to the Troubleshooting Guide, but all of the symptoms and solutions listed were inapplicable to us because they assumed we had gotten farther along than we had. In fact, we were where we were hours before: nowhere.
At this point Mrs. Lowery got up and inspected the television, the converter box and the wires and cables. She took the color-coded wires from us. "These probably have no use. They look like they're supposed to be connected to a VCR or DVD player, which I don't have." She tossed them aside. She then took the black cables and handed the end of one to me. "See if it'll fit into one of these holes on the back of the television." To my surprise it did. She gave the other end to Vernon and instructed him to insert it in the converter box. If fit like a glove. She took the other cable and had me hook one end into another port on the television; she had Vernon hook the other end into the antenna itself. "Try it now," she said.
Sure enough the television came to life with a signal indicating a successful connection. Vernon handed her the remote control. "I already inserted the battery," he said somewhat boastfully. Mrs. Lowery worked the remote and before long was able to set the necessary menus. Soon we were watching television. It was now almost daylight and a morning news program came on the air. The first news report of the day was that the Congress had voted to extend the deadline for digital conversion of television airwaves from February to June. Vernon and I just looked at each other. "It's okay, boys," said Mrs. Lowery, "we'd have to make the switch one way or another, sooner or later." After a little while, though, we noticed that despite the good connection there were times when the picture on the television froze and broke up. It was very annoying. "My dear," said Mrs. Lowery, "I never had this problem with just the antenna. Frankly, I wouldn't call this an improvement." To which Vernon responded: "Welcome to the digital age, Mrs. Lowery."
Mrs. Lowery thanked us for our help. Vernon woke Rawson and showed me to the door before going up to his own apartment. As we left the room we heard Mrs. Lowery mutter, "The future sure ain't what it used to be."
A Resident of Woodside
(For Exclusive Use of the Queens Gazette)
The phone rang at an unusually late hour, meaning only one thing--Vernon Jackson, my lifelong friend, needed help. "Have you hooked your television to the digital converter box yet?" he asked.
I explained to Vernon that because I received my TV signal through a local cable company, I had no need for a converter box. But knowing what a sports fanatic he is, I expressed surprise that he had not yet himself subscribed to cable television. "Oh, it's not for me," said Vernon, "it's for my landlady, Mrs. Lowery. She still gets her television the old-fashioned way. When she heard that she would need a converter box to get her signal, she sent for and received one of those $40 discount cards from the government. I took it to Best Buy and bought a box for her, but for the life of me I can't figure out how to connect this thing to her television."
Despite the hour I agreed to go over to Vernon's place to see if I could be of any assistance. Vernon lived nearby in one of the old Mathews Flats on Skillman Avenue. For years he had rented an upstairs flat from the widowed Mrs. Lowery. In minutes I was greeted at the front door by Vernon and his dog, Rawson. He ushered me into the front room where Mrs. Lowery was seated on a sofa, her cat, Bliss, sleeping peacefully on her lap. We exchanged pleasantries and Vernon motioned me to a corner of the room where the old television, equipped only with a rabbit-eared antenna, sat atop a small bookcase. Beneath it was the converter box and what appeared to be a dozen tangled wires. A look of frustration was evident on Vernon's face. "I've tried everything," he said.
Now anyone the least bit acquainted with me knows full well that I have no aptitude whatever for things electronic. But I offered to give it a try. "Where are the instructions?" I asked with a feigned air of confidence. Vernon retrieved the cardboard box that had packaged the device and withdrew the instructions. "Did you even bother to read these?" I asked with an equally feigned air of disdain. "I did, I did" insisted Vernon. He handed me the instruction booklet. It consisted of 48 pages, half English half Spanish. A separate sheet, labeled "Quick Setup Guide," was inserted in the booklet. I looked at the booklet and then at the Quick Setup insert. "Let's start with the insert," I decided.
An hour later I gave up on the insert and reached for the booklet. Mrs. Lowery brought us coffee. Vernon and I were seated on the floor beneath the television, which was turned about so we'd have access to the set's connections. The converter came with a red wire, a yellow wire and a white wire, but no similarly color-coded entry ports existed on the back of the television. And there were two black cables. There seemed to be too many wires altogether. Nevertheless, we had exhausted every possible connection to no avail. "I guess we'll have to read the booklet after all," I said. I detected a smirk from Vernon. Rawson yawned and repaired to the other side of the room to sleep. Mrs. Lowery returned to her seat on the sofa.
The first three pages of the instruction booklet consisted of the usual "Important Safety Instructions." "We can skip these," I said. The fourth page was the Introduction, which thanked us for buying the machine. It also contained a Special Note which stated that "Digital TV broadcasts require an adequate signal strength from the antenna." I looked at Vernon. "Are you sure the signal is adequate?" Vernon looked at Mrs. Lowery. "Never had a problem before," she said calmly.
Next came the Table of Contents, then two pages devoted to the remote control, and another page of schematics. Finally, we arrived at the section concerning the connection to the TV. "Here we go," I said.
The first part of this section contained three pages of schematics and technical jargon. Then came three pages labeled "Remote Control Overview," one page labeled "Zoom Functions," which prompted Vernon and me to look at each other blankly, and finally several pages labeled "Main Menu." We looked carefully through this section, which included subsections entitled Auto Program, Auto Scan Digital Channels, Manual Channel Set, Password Code, Parental Control Settings, Closed Caption, Language, Sleep Timer, Smart Antenna (Optional), Time Zone, TV Aspect Ratio, and Reset Default Settings (What would someone like Mrs. Lowery need with all this stuff, we wondered), but still we could find nothing about connecting the converter to the television. There followed a Trouble Shooting Guide, an Index and a Limited Warranty page. Here we reached the point where the instructions began again in Spanish. "Can you read Spanish?" Vernon ventured.
We returned to the Troubleshooting Guide, but all of the symptoms and solutions listed were inapplicable to us because they assumed we had gotten farther along than we had. In fact, we were where we were hours before: nowhere.
At this point Mrs. Lowery got up and inspected the television, the converter box and the wires and cables. She took the color-coded wires from us. "These probably have no use. They look like they're supposed to be connected to a VCR or DVD player, which I don't have." She tossed them aside. She then took the black cables and handed the end of one to me. "See if it'll fit into one of these holes on the back of the television." To my surprise it did. She gave the other end to Vernon and instructed him to insert it in the converter box. If fit like a glove. She took the other cable and had me hook one end into another port on the television; she had Vernon hook the other end into the antenna itself. "Try it now," she said.
Sure enough the television came to life with a signal indicating a successful connection. Vernon handed her the remote control. "I already inserted the battery," he said somewhat boastfully. Mrs. Lowery worked the remote and before long was able to set the necessary menus. Soon we were watching television. It was now almost daylight and a morning news program came on the air. The first news report of the day was that the Congress had voted to extend the deadline for digital conversion of television airwaves from February to June. Vernon and I just looked at each other. "It's okay, boys," said Mrs. Lowery, "we'd have to make the switch one way or another, sooner or later." After a little while, though, we noticed that despite the good connection there were times when the picture on the television froze and broke up. It was very annoying. "My dear," said Mrs. Lowery, "I never had this problem with just the antenna. Frankly, I wouldn't call this an improvement." To which Vernon responded: "Welcome to the digital age, Mrs. Lowery."
Mrs. Lowery thanked us for our help. Vernon woke Rawson and showed me to the door before going up to his own apartment. As we left the room we heard Mrs. Lowery mutter, "The future sure ain't what it used to be."
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