Horizontal Hold

I hold a special place in my heart for the Super Bowl ad for VW featuring the Darth Vader kid and his ‘magic hands’.  Because if you are old enough to know what the horizontal hold dial was for (not a euphemism), then you are also of an age to know that one could not always count on technology to work.  ‘Magic hands’ from the comfort of the sofa would work to right the malfunctioning picture tube quite by chance, maybe once in every eleven attempts, just statistically enough to qualify as intermittent reinforcement, solidifying magic hands as a viable TV stop-gap repair option. 

            Also effective was the well-placed rap to the top of the thing, which revealed a worn finish over time directly over the sweet spot.  Holding the antenna in your hand was also an effective marrying of man and machine, as I spent many nights holding on to the antenna to catch the last half hour of the Red Skelton show.  Good things never came easy.  I had a 45 record that broke from the center hole out clean to the edge, and if I matched it back together carefully enough and stacked enough pennies on the needle, it would play “Hey There Lonely Girl” without skipping on the ditch each time around.  I can’t imagine that banging my ipod against something would have the same effect.

            Back in the day, not counting on technology meant that it was possible that if a strong breeze hit, I may not get to see Buddy lose her virginity on Family, and once it’s gone, it’s gone.  There’s no DVR, no repeat on YouTube.  Her decimation was a one-time shot.  Best you could hope for was to phone a friend and get a blow-by-blow.  But Cathy’s not answering the phone.  Nobody is.  Buddy’s losing her virginity tonight on the set in the living room and there’s no phone in there.

            I could rattle on like those feel-good emails all of the splendors that kids these days have missed out on in life, but in honesty, we do come from a special generation (or two) that have the ability to choose technology.  We can dive into FaceBook.  Or not.   We can count back change from a coin belt and watch cloud formations morph in the wind.  We can settle for more and find happiness in less.  We are not so old that technology intimidates us and not so young to not remember life without it. 

            It was magical thinking to think that magic hands could rule technology, but millennials believe they do rule technology.   They certainly utilize it as fully and as effortlessly as a limb, a logical extension of their being.  But if you are of my generation, and along comes Watson, the IBM computer poised to clean up on tonight’s Jeopardy! challenge, how can you feel anything other than scared?  What if magical hands can no longer rule technology?  If Watson wins, have we turned the corner?  Will the technology monster hold out its magical hands and we’ll be screwed?  Perhaps as you count up the time spent staring at a blank screen during a long download, you’ll think that we already are.  Who’s in charge?  Good God, at least go look at cloud formations while you’re waiting. 

            So I close with a cheer for Ken Jennings to kick some PC ass this week, help appease my generation for another year or so, lull us into a vertical hold, believing that the generative use of language is ours and exclusively ours.  Along with the losing-of-the-virginity.  That’s ours too, at least for now.

God, church and germs

I grew up Methodist and I used to have this recurring dream where I was forced to sit in a non-existent area of the church sanctuary where you couldn’t see the minister.  That area was usually filled with folks that looked like extras on The Titanic.  My family was sitting elsewhere.  I learned from the Big Book of Dreams that this had nothing to do with church but everything to do with family strife.  Amen.

            I usually enjoyed church once I got up and got there, since Cathy and I would usually sit together and play cuss-word hangman (two six-letter words both ending in ‘r’) and write incriminating or gossipy notes on the church bulletin which then had to be destroyed fully at the end of the service.  We ate the red dollars and razzles we bought with our offering cash at Midtown News while cutting Sunday school.  Good thing they didn’t take attendance or I would have certainly had Sunday school detention.

            As an adult I don’t go to church the way I should, and I think I would go more often if the service would consist of only the following:.

1. One 20-minute sermon –send me away with the good word for the week.
2. Choir sings no more than two selections.  I do not have to sing with.
3. Benediction and clear the sanctuary.

I think it’s rude to ask me to stand up and sing some hymn I’ve never heard before from page 634 in The Methodist Hymnal written in a key in which I can’t reach the lowest note and the highest note is dog whistle.  I’m not warmed up!  If I wanted to be in the church choir I would have auditioned.  In short, if I know the song already, and can belt the whole selection in chest voice, I’m in, otherwise just let me rent my 12” of wooden pew with my $5.00 and handful-of-razzles-offering and let me be. 

            On the contrary, however, as a pre-teen budding actress, my favorite part of the service was the call-and-response.  I would always perk up in the odd week as I spotted my response lines printed in bold type in the bulletin as I settled into my pew.

 “I have a couple of lines it looks like.  I should take a moment to study those over.” 

Inevitably Cathy would be in the middle of scribing last night’s pursuits on my bulletin as we came to the call-and response segment, which was frustrating to me as I was trying to go to zero to prepare for my performance, it all comes up very quickly,

“He is Lord of all.”

I said it with emotion, with proper tenor, with 278 other people.

Waiting, waiting, waiting……

“We worship and praise your name.”

Could that have gone even better!?

            Of course the worst part of the service for me as an adult and the one that is enough to keep me away is that terribly awkward moment after the minor chords stop their echo through the pipes, after the sermon is over but before the benediction where one is literally forced by the church minister to turn and greet those around you with the phrase, “Peace Be With You”.   Even as an actor I really can’t motivate this moment.  What, are we suddenly and collectively dropped into a Shakespeare sonnet?  Can’t I put it into today’s vernacular and say something like, “I hope you get some peace this week.”  I think I’d rather fake speaking in tongues (redundant?) and dance wildly in the aisles naked than greet my neighbors at that moment.  Cathy and I would always laugh and do it in a hillbilly accent or something.

            This Peace-Be-With-You moment usually has one of two looks to it, either you are encouraged to hug your congregational neighbor or to shake hands.  During a visit to the Unity church we were obliged to hold hands while we sang the dog whistles.  As an aside, you should know that I don’t have that germ hang up that three-quarters of the loonies in this country have, it’s not that, trust me, I don’t even own a bottle of hand sanitizer, I’m very proud to be anti-antibacterial.  And that’s not to say I’m pro-illness, either, I’m just pro-choice. 

            Look, I love germs I just hate people.  I’ll kiss the blue-haired lady full on the mouth on her disappearing lips rather than shake her hand and say ‘Peace be with you’.  I’ll eat that casserole you brought in from your mobile home with twenty cats, bring it on, truly, I believe in germs as much as anything else in the church.  I guess I just look at church as a very personal and private affair and I want to be with my thoughts and meditations as I lament and pray for the entire state of the universe, but, but- if someone else is so moved by the holy spirit (rare in protestant services, by design) and feels they need to let it all hang out, I can be counted on to sit here and watch them.  But honestly we can’t have that open-ended histrionic display or this scripted service cannot be brought-in within the 10:45 – 12 noon timeslot.  There is a divine mandate to clear out this church so they can continue to heat it. And that’s why you end up with the peace-be-with-you trained seal moment.

            To sum up, I mostly don’t hate people, I do believe that germs are part of God’s kingdom too, and if I promise to get all fellowshippy at the potluck after, will you lift us from the bondage of that inorganic sonnet moment?  And save the universe from despair?  I humbly pray, Amen.