Alan Ball, "Six Feet Under- Season 1"

There are certain consumer choices and behaviors that seem to mark individuals as members of the American mainstream. An almost unwholesome obsession with sports (mostly in a strictly voyeuristic sense) is one of them. Another is an addiction to cable television. Every once in awhile someone who I don't know very well will assume that I share these proclivities, and launch into a subject using names and terms that are unfamiliar to me. When this happens I have a few options. I can quickly change the subject to something I do know about. I can remain relatively silent and nod my head as if I understand completely. Or I can explain that I don't participate in these "activities" in any meaningful way.

Usually, if I respect the person I'm talking with, I'll opt for that last choice. I'm always prepared for a quick end to such a conversation. And it's often a relief to me when that expectation is realized. I find most of the programs (and sporting events) that the average media consumer prefers boring. I can't exactly trace the development of my attitude. When I was a kid, I watched all the popular shows. But at some undefined point in my early 20's, most of the stuff on television ceased to compel me to continue watching. It just didn't seem relevant to the things I was experiencing in my life. A lot of material that I would have once laughed at or been excited by seemed contrived. I suppose I lost some friends when this happened.

After awhile I discovered ways to find things that did resonate with my life. The internet came around at the ideal time, and access expanded to a point that I could identify films, books, and music that challenged and intrigued me. For years I built collections of items that I felt would be essential. Over time I had to cast my sights further afield to ferret out the gems. Through a strange and circuitous inverted path, I have recently found myself buying DVDs of television programs that I missed along the way. The latest series I've been exploring is the HBO production Six Feet Under. It was a quirky show broadcast between 2001 and 2005. Alan Ball, the writer of American Beauty, created the concept.

Six Feet Under garnered a lot of critical acclaim and many awards. Some have made the claim that it was one of the best dramas ever made for television. While I tend to avoid that type of superlative- after watching the first season I can recommend it as a quality show. It concerns a family that owns and operates a funeral parlor. Ruth Fisher (Frances Conroy) is a middle-aged widow with three (mostly) adult children who all have a tendency to keep their inner lives repressed. The oldest (Nate, played by Peter Krause) has been brought back to his childhood home by the death of his father, after casting about in a Northwestern slacker existence for a decade-and-a-half. His reluctant reintegration is facilitated by a developing relationship with Brenda (played by Rachel Griffiths), a brilliant but troubled young woman raised under the close scrutiny of two eminent psychologists.

Middle child David (Michael C. Hall) is the presumptive head of the family business. He's inherited his tendency to be a control freak from his mother, and is struggling to come to terms with his repressed homosexuality. And then there is Claire (Lauren Ambrose), the baby of the family, who has her own adolescent difficulties dealing with being the high school "freak". All of the principles are competent (if not outstanding) actors, and their performances benefit from the quirky plot threads and dialog written into the show. Obviously death plays a large role as an organizing theme. There is ample dark humor included to temper the constant background of tragedy that permeates the narrative arc.

Perhaps the most admirable aspect of Six Feet Under is its unflinching willingness to confront controversial subject matter in an apparently honest way. There are certainly elements of magical realism threading through the episodes, but they never distract from the impression that the viewer is watching an essentially truthful depiction of an unusual American tableau. Ultimately that's what attracts me to the show- I find it insightful enough to keep watching, even when it hits the occasional awkward note. I don't know whether or not I'll make it through the full run, but what I've seen so far has justified its existence.

Why We Will Never Just Get Along.

It must suck being old. You might wonder how I can form such a conclusion, and that's understandable. I believe that this must be the case because certain old people are so difficult to be around. My personal plight is to be sandwiched in between elderly neighbors. On our right we have the most bitter and crusty man that I have ever met. Everything out of his mouth turns to shit as soon as it hits the air. It doesn't matter what subject he gets on; he is always hateful and resentful. Meanwhile he's married to what must be one of the longest-suffering women in America. Granted she's no plum herself, but I am compelled to feel sympathy for her lot in life. She's joined to an asshole, and I can only imagine how much that stinks.

Not that she's immune to transforming into a monster at the slightest pretext. I've written about such an episode in another post. But regardless of her lapses in sanity, I'd prefer to deal with her than her cretinous husband. In fact I recently made the mistake of crossing the white line at the front of their handicapped parking space. I was absolutely in the wrong, and ready to admit it when it was pointed out. Instead I had to fire back when the decrepit fool started yelling at me over the shoulder of his wife. Later I made a point of telling the woman that she should come to me alone with any problems she has, and that I'd make sure to resolve them quickly and courteously. I also reinforced my position that I will never deal with her mate.

So on that side of my homestead, all I can do is wait for the glue factory to come and take my neighbor away forever. One of these days he'll be screaming at his poor unfortunate subject/wife, and he'll have a massive coronary and die on the spot. In response the entire block will throw a week-long celebration to honor his absence. Until then I'll simply try to ignore him. I have my hands plenty full with the old lady on our left. At least she makes the occasional effort to be the solid citizen. I know she has great affection for Baby E. Even so, she is doddering and addled, both in her expression and her decisions. She once tried to give E. an old abandoned shoe she had found in the street... just tried to pitch it next to him in his stroller.

Our relationship (such as it is) has actually improved a bit over the years. One time we went on a trip for a week, making sure to provide for someone to come by and check on our cats every other day. When we got back the old dotty hen told us that our cat had been mewing out the window whenever it saw her. Besides wondering why our nosy neighbor was peeking in our windows, we were stumped about her point. Our cat likes people, so what? Then the lady told us that she was tempted to call the ASPCA on us for "neglect". M. absolutely loved that one, and she made sure to dress the old woman down. Apparently M.'s language was strong enough, as things immediately cooled down and a détente was quickly struck.

Now ol' dotty hen has to direct her energies elsewhere. This evening I was amused to see her jawing with a middle-aged man who was visiting his daughter a few doors down. It seemed that he had taken our neighbor's handicapped space, and she was trying to exert some sort of territorial imperative. Even after the man pointed out that he had "disabled person" plates on front and back, she continued to insist that she could call the police. Her reasoning (evidently) was that they were Maryland plates, and somehow not valid in front of her house. But the funniest thing of all was that she didn't need the spot, and would not have parked there even if it was empty. Tomorrow is street cleaning, and she never forgets to remind us several days ahead of time. Her car is across the street and will stay there throughout Monday.

Dark Thoughts on a Sunny Day.

This past Saturday I experienced the worst local traffic of any weekend of my life. I found myself parked in the left lane on Washington Boulevard (Rte. 8), with cars all around me. There were several factors contributing to the early afternoon snarl. A rockslide and subsequent road-closing on Rte. 28 near Harmarville had redirected a lot of traffic. In addition, it happened to be "free day" at the zoo, prompting literally thousands of parents to cart their tykes over there. But these things would only have accounted for the cars on the opposite side of the road. When I first hit the congestion, I was frustrated but not beyond hope. We were moving, albeit very slowly. Then we all came to a a complete stop. I lit up a cigarette, fully expecting to resume movement before I was down to the filter.

Unfortunately I went through a couple of smokes before I could continue on my journey. There didn't seem to be any sense in wasting gas, so I shut the engine off. I got out of my car with the intention of looking for a garbage bag in my trunk in order to clean the rubbish from the interior of my car. In the absence of this necessary article, I decided to merely mill about on the street. I noticed that several other drivers had also exited their vehicles, and they were congregating in a clump around a young blonde haired woman. She was telling them a story that I assumed explained the situation. I couldn't really hear what she was saying, other than a few snippets of hushed awe. I waited until she had broken away from the group and then solicited her to retell the tale.

Apparently she had been on her way to the zoo with her daughter at 8:30 AM, and she saw a car swerve several places in front of her. She then heard a loud crash and pulled over on the side of the road to report the accident to 911. At this point the young woman had no idea how severe the incident was, and after her call she continued on her way. As she passed the wreck site, she observed that the unlucky motorist had crashed into a tree. The automobile was so mangled that it was barely recognizable, and she couldn't see anyone through what was left of the windows of the car. She had been amazed (three hours later) on her return from the zoo to find herself caught up in traffic near the exact same spot. Along with me, she had been halted about 8-10 car lengths behind the emergency vehicles blocking off the road. We could see the ambulance and the coroner finally loading the remains for disposal. Evidently the investigation and cleanup were rather demanding and time-intensive.

This woman was obviously struck by the tragedy of the event she had (kind 0f) witnessed. To her, that made the whole episode rather personal. Her voice quivered as she repeated these details to me. I listened quietly without immediate response. She kept focusing on the fact that she couldn't see anyone in the mashed up car. I mentioned that I felt guilty that my main reaction was to feel a sense of inconvenience. Perhaps my honesty was misdirected or innappropriate, but I couldn't come up with an alternative. Besides... it was true that impatience dominated my thinking. I didn't want to get stuck for hours along the unshaded road in a rapidly increasing heat. After about forty minutes we were allowed through. I felt a combination of relief and a lingering sense of my own callousness. As I passed with a glimpse at the wreckage, I gave a little internal shudder. I was glad it wasn't me. I felt fortunate to be alive.

As the day progressed, the incident was mostly absent from my conscious mind. Yet I was feeling increasingly depressed. It is true that every once in awhile a reminder of my own mortality arises to plague my mood. Often I don't realize until much later the source of my depression. But as I sat with my friends on Saturday night, I could feel the thing gnaw away at me. Life is irreparably transient, and there is nothing I can do about it. Without the succor of faith, I am left with the possibility that death will bring an eternal oblivion. There is nothing more terrifying to me than imagining that prospect. I've learned not to dwell on these thoughts, but they never quite go away. I take little comfort in the reality that this fatal issue accompanies each and every creature on earth. My own self-interest overwhelms any philosophical remove from this state.

Anyway... have a nice day.