Who Needs Writers?

So, the Writers Guild of America members have been on strike for over a week now -- an action that threatens to halt the television broadcast of untold, assuredly vast, quantities of mindless drivel. (Actually, I should have said "fresh, mindless drivel" because, of course, the TV networks are up to their big, fat keesters in untold, assuredly vast, quantities of old, rehashed, mindless drivel, which they can, and do, rerun whenever they please, since they know that the majority of Americans are stupid enough to lap it up like kittens do milk.)

I say, " Who needs 'em?" (Writers that is, not the kittens. I've got no problem with kittens.)

I say this because: A) I don't watch TV and haven't since Comcast decided, four years ago, that their particular agglomeration of mindless drivel warranted a monthly payment of $42 -- an assessment with which I took umbrage; and B) I take public transportation to work every day and, therein, have a solid hour of daily entertainment at least equal to, if not surpassing, anything found in TV-land. Seriously! All you folks who commute to and from your place of employment, cozily ensconced in the protective cocoon of a fuel-chugging SUV: you don't know what you're missing out here in the real world. Public transportation is not only like watching TV, it's like being part of the show!

There are two such shows I watch regularly: Morningtown Ride and The Path Home. They tend to be a bit formulaic, but that's not entirely unappreciated at 7:00 a.m. when one is still half asleep or at 5:00 p.m. when the call of the sofa reaches its crescendo. Occasionally, when I'm required to attend meetings at our company headquarters, I get to take in a somewhat less conventional mid-day show called, To Fremont and Back. It's a two-hour, independently produced, foreign-language drama featuring B-list actors who are looking to break out of their "freaks and weirdos" typecasting and into prime time. This show runs the gamut from mildly strange to downright bizarre, and is never dull. That said, however, my favorite show by far, remains Morningtown Ride.

The star of Morningtown Ride is someone I call "Princess," though I'm sure her actual name is Heather, Tiffany, Crystal or one of those other cloyingly honeyed girl names from the early 1980s. Princess is tiny -- about five-foot-five (factoring in her four-inch stiletto Manolo Blaniks) and maybe 80 pounds soaking wet. The product of a velvety suburban upbringing, she is in the neighborhood of 24 years old and, I believe, has a Bachelor's degree in fashion merchandising from San Francisco's Academy of Art University, which she was inspired to obtain from watching Cindy Crawford's House of Style through her formative teens.

Princess's silhouette approximates that of the naked chrome bimbo you see gracing the mud-flaps of semi-trucks. She spends countless hours on the StairMaster, perfecting the tone of her firm little bottom while simultaneously fomenting a collective flow of drool from her gym's male membership. Her 32C-cup boobs are fake (a 21st birthday present to herself), her makeup is flawless and plentiful, her French-manicured fingers look as if the most rugged task ever assigned them is to pop open a diet soda can, her sunshine-blond hair is ever so stylishly mussed and her clothing is straight out of Nordstrom's Individualist department, where she works as an assistant to the Purchasing Manager and gets first pick of the sale items plus a 20% discount. Next to her, in my Beatnik-inspired ensemble of Levis 501 jeans, black turtle-neck and battered clogs, I look hopelessly provincial, but I don't care, because I never worry about chipping my nails and my feet aren't killing me. (So, ha!)

Princess has exactly four brain cells. She requires three to keep herself upright, which only leaves one for communicating. This is why her conversations center on the content of this week's People magazine or, when that runs dry, which of her friends said what to whom and how grave an oath she is prepared to take to verify this (as in "Yes, I am totally telling you that's what he said to her, I swear to God!") When Princess talks, she gently whistles her S's because she thinks it makes her sound cute -- plus all her friends do it. Her primary goal in life is to snag a husband from the stable of 30-something, up-and-coming stock brokers in San Francisco's financial district, get married, settle down into a comfortably posh Blackhawk McMansion, have a couple kids and then start her own interior-design company using her husband's accumulated wealth -- not that they'd need the extra money, you understand.  It would be just too keep her off the streets, so to speak.

Princess catches the train in Pleasant Hill, as do I. When I arrive, she's usually waiting to board, about two or three commuters ahead of me in line and, more often than not, she is rummaging through her Luis Vuitton handbag with the avidity of a Jack Russell terrier working a rabbit hole. Whatever she's looking for, she can never seem to find it, despite what appears to be an exhaustive search strategy involving the frequent, inadvertent ejection of random items from her bag -- lipstick, chewing gum, cell phone, car keys, wallet, sunglasses, earring, nail polish, lap dog, tampon... The list is endless and extravagantly varied. Each of her fumbles is accompanied by a dainty little "Oops!" and a look of amazed curiosity, as if this were her first experience with gravitational forces. As she scurries unstably on her heels to retrieve the item -- her silicone endowments flirting coquettishly with the margins of her cashmere sweater's deep V-neckline -- every male passenger within a fifty-meter radius rushes to her aid with knightly urgency. They can't help themselves, I'm sure. I once saw an expensively suited young man sprint, wide-receiver style, from the far end of the platform and make a diving catch to save her MP3 player from certain shattering death against the hard concrete train platform.

(Interestingly, and as an aside, I have noticed that Princess's errant tampons do not elicit this same reaction from male bystanders. It's always some grandmotherly old woman who retrieves the tampon for her because all the nearby men have suddenly become preoccupied with something off in the sideways distance -- something that is, pointedly, not the tampon. I've observed this male fear of feminine hygiene products before. As a teenager, I could get my brothers to do just about anything for me, by threatening them with a Kotex box. It's like Kryptonite to Superman. Most fascinating. Worth noting for future reference, ladies.)

Princess harbors unrequited love for Frank -- an impeccably groomed, career-obsessed, George Clooney-ish looking, 34-year old financier, on the tastefully side of flashy, who also boards the train at Pleasant Hill. Everyone knows his name is Frank, and that he works in finance, because he spends all non-tunneled portions of train ride making cell phone calls that being with a booming baritone exclamation of the call recipient's name (e.g. "Tom!"), followed by "Frank here," and then a whole lot of fast-paced, Wall Street mumbo-jumbo involving phrases like "hedge fund," "advance-decline," "net free reserves," "yield curve," and my personal favorite (though I have no idea what the hell it means) "random walk theory." Similarly, everyone knows that Frank is 34 because of a phone conversation three months ago, wherein he related the details of his "babe-alicious 34th birthday bash" to a friend apparently named "Dude!"

Everything Frank owns looks as if he purchased it yesterday. Nothing is scuffed, worn, wrinkled, snagged, faded, pilled or otherwise besmirched by the ravages of time or industry. And nearly everything on his person bears the monogram "FBM," including an impressively large, gold signet ring on his right hand. I'm guessing that the "M" stands for "Moneybags" and the "B" for either "Bulging" or "Beaucoup," though judging from the less savory points of the babe-alicious birthday bash story, it might also stand for "Bastard."

Frank likes to live slightly on the edge -- a requisite personality trait for stock brokers, I guess -- and since time is money, he is loathe to waste any of it standing idly on a train platform. This means that Frank is forever dashing up the escalator and bounding onto the train, in the proverbial nick of time, just as the get-your-ass-in-the-door tone sounds and the portal slides shut within inches of scratching his glossy Hugo Boss Oxfords. You can see, nay even smell, Princess's nervous anticipation as she eyes the length of the train car, waiting to see if he'll make it in time. She never chooses her seat until after he arrives or the train departs -- whichever comes first. Instead, she waits just inside the door, biding her time, pretending to fix a nail, or untangle a bracelet. Once Frank has alighted, she selects her perch -- ideally in the seat next to him but, if that's not available (if, for instance, some horrid, spiteful woman in Levis 501 jeans, a black turtle-neck and battered clogs sits next to him) then Princess chooses a nearby installation strategically located to afford Frank the best view of her $7,500 chest. This is when the fun begins.

Frank, for all his urbane savoir-faire, is a bit of a dunderhead. Despite what you might think, based on his chosen occupation, I believe that Frank, like Princess, may be operating with limited neuronal assets. No sooner is his fanny planted, than he whips out his laptop, pokes some buttons on his phone and yells, "Mike! Frank here. Hey, give me el scoop-o-grande on London, will 'ya? What kinda' margins we lookin' at?" Meanwhile, Princess is dedicating every fiber of her being toward attracting his attention. She fiddles with her earrings, flicks her hair, smoothes her skirt over her shapely thighs, bends forward for no apparent reason other than to display The Girls from a novel angle. Then into her purse she dives again, this time accidentally dislodging articles of a far more intimate nature -- a lacy, purple Victoria Secret bra; a photo of herself topless on a beach in Aruba; a packet of XXL condoms. Sometimes Frank distractedly retrieves the items and hands them back to her, all the while with his eyes glued to his laptop and his mouth spewing orders into the phone. Sometimes he simply doesn't notice at all.  When her magic bag-o-tricks has been exhausted, Princess pulls out her own cell phone and conducts giggle-filled conversations with someone named Blaine -- I'm guessing he's her gay roommate -- while glancing frequently at Frank to see if he is, perchance, eavesdropping. He's not. See? A dunderhead.

When the train reaches Rockridge station we are joined by Dave: a woodsy, rough-around-the-edges guy in his late 20s, whose wardrobe consists mainly of items purchased from R.E.I., Eddie Bauer and LL Bean. Dave is a Ph.D. candidate in Biology at UC Berkeley and is currently living off on a two-year, $50,000 EPA fellowship to study radiation-induced genetic mutations in seabirds roosting on the Farallon Islands. Actually, I'm not positive that his name is Dave, but since 87.4% of the outdoorsy men I've ever met bear that moniker, I don't think I'm going too far out on a limb here. In fact, if you ever find that you have forgotten the name of some rugged, hinterland-loving male acquaintance, you stand a good chance of getting it right if you address him as "Dave."

Dave has got it bad for Princess, though I don't know why, exactly, since she is "so totally not his type" (her words, spoken to Blaine over the phone, just loud enough for Dave to overhear -- the little bitch). In my words, he's too good for her. He'd want to take her up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains and show her beauteous wonders like clumps of sunset-colored columbine growing on stark, granite hillsides; or kayak her through Drakes Estero to watch great blue herons fishing. She'd just complain about being cold and wet. As a Christmas gift, he would give her homemade coupons for back-rubs and donate $20, in her name, to the Nature Conservancy. She'd whine, "That's all?" Dave is sweet, sincere, soft-spoken and unassuming -- basically the antitheses of Frank. Each morning, he manages to extend to Princess a kind smile, a gentle "Good morning," or a friendly comment on the weather. In exchange, she usually snaps her gum, pulls out the latest issue of W magazine and erects it in front of her face, like the Great Wall of China, shutting him out completely. He just sighs and spends the rest of the trip quietly reading a dog-eared copy of Audubon. It breaks my heart.

I leave Princess and Frank at MacArthur station, where I transfer to the Richmond line, as does Dave. We ride in silence two stops north then both off-board at the Downtown Berkeley station. As I turn west onto Center Street, I watch him shuffle east toward campus, still reading the Audubon article on Ecuadorian pale-headed brush finches, and I hope that he has a good day and is not too bruised by Princess's callous indifference. Really, I hope that he just forgets her entirely and links up with Madeline -- a cute, earthy, red-head, who comes from San Leandro on the Richmond line, off-boards with us in Downtown Berkeley and bounces her way vivaciously up Center Street toward campus, just a little ahead of Dave. Madeline looks like the kind of person who would appreciate clumps of sunset-colored columbine, great blue herons, back-rubs and donations to the Nature Conservancy. I bet they'd be good together.

Here's how I think their script should go: Dave would accidentally jostle Madeline's books while crossing the street, then scramble to pick them up, apologizing profusely. She'd joke, "No, really, it's okay. I hate that text book anyway." Then they'd laugh and he'd ask what class it was for. She'd reply, "North American Avian Studies," to which he would exclaim that he had taken that class, back in the day. He'd ask if "Old Van der Schlumper" was still teaching it and she'd say, "Yes," but express frustration at the unfathomable complexity of the old fart's assignments. Then Dave would offer to impart to her the secrets of passing Van der Schlumper's mid-terms and invite her to meet him for coffee later. She would accept with great enthusiasm and they'd be on their way to happily ever after. I think Dave deserves that story line.

Meanwhile, back on the train, Princess and Frank continue on into San Francisco and join the toiling city bustle. She teeters and gum-snaps her way through the day, then catches the ten-past-six train home, relating to Blaine how "toooooootally cute" Frank's new suit was that morning, how she thought she saw him eating lunch outside 101 California Street and how "that loser in the North Face jacket" had the nerve to say "Hi" to her again. For his part, Frank wheels and deals and makes $65,000 in commissions by the closing bell. After work, he drops into Neiman Marcus to pick up his new Armani suit, which has been custom tailored to hang smoothly from his broad shoulders and cunningly hide his emerging spare tire. Then, with the other sharks from his firm, he makes rounds to three or four downtown bars, scoring digits from numerous young ladies, with absolutely no intention of ever calling them. Frank stumbles to the Powell street station and passes out on the 9:15 p.m. train back to Pleasant Hill. At no moment during his day, does he ever think of Princess.

So that's the show I get to watch every morning. I challenge you to find anything so engaging in the listings of your TV Guide. If, as this WGA strike continues, you find yourself bored with all the reruns, you are more than welcome to come join the fun. There are a couple items you will need: First, a BART ticket -- the price of admission, a bargain at $1.80 (available at any BART station, most Safeway and Longs Drug stores, and a thug on the corner of Shattuck and Alston -- for him, bring cash). A good pair of dark glasses is also a must, preferably mirrored or, if you'd rather not look like a Village Person, dark enough that Princess, Frank, Dave and Madeline can't see your eyes while you're watching them. Additionally, you'll want to bring along a book, magazine or newspaper, to serve as a handy decoy, so you can pretend to read while taking in the show.

Finally, you'll need a sense of humor and a bountifully creative imagination. You remember imagination, don't you? It's that thing that kids used to play with before TV was invented. That and sticks. Boy, we had some splendid sticks, and we were grateful for them too, let me tell you!

No More Popcorn

Today, I am in mourning. My mind is numb and I'm feeling lost. Actually, I think I'm in shock.

Last night, at 2:00 a.m., while I was in blissfully slumber, California switched to Pacific Standard time. This morning, when I dutifully called the Time Lady, so I could re-set my clocks to the correct hour, I learned an awful truth: as of September 19, 2007, the Time Announcement Information Service had been discontinued -- they apologize for any inconvenience. Beep.

I hung up and dialed again. Sure enough, the Time Lady beeps no more. She's been snuffed out. Bumped off. Whacked. Iced. 86ed. Zotzed. She has gone the way of the dinosaurs, Mesopotamia, drive-in theaters, full-service gas stations, milk-men, 8-track tapes, Josie & The Pussycats lunch boxes, Sunshine Golden Raisin Bars, and three-dimensional Cracker Jack prizes (real ones, like imitation gold rings, miniature magnifying glasses and little plastic animal stand-ups, not those crappy stickers and temporary tattoos you get now-a-days). This is just wrong!

The Time Lady has been a constant in my life since I gained the dexterity and cognitive skill to dial "P-O-P-C-O-R-N" on my parents powder-blue, rotary Princess Phone. As kids, we used to listen to her for the better part of an hour, while earnestly monitoring the kitchen clock to see if it was keeping proper time. Life was much simpler then. We were easily amused. Plus we had no TV.

We also used to call the Time Lady and relay what she said to my Mom, working out in the garden. "Maaaaa!" we'd yell from the kitchen door, "It's 3:46 and 20 seconds."

"Thank you, " Mom would reply, as she nipped the spent blossoms off her rose bushes.

"Now, it's 3:46 and 30 seconds."

"Okay, thank you. That's enough."

"Now, it's 3:46 and 40 seconds."

"I said that's enough."

"Now, it's 3:46 and 50 seconds."

"Hang up the phone now!"

When I was 13 and regularly babysitting Seth and Damian -- the two demon spawn who lived across the street -- I used to call the Time Lady and pretend I was speaking to their mother. "Your Mom says you'd better go to bed right now, or she'll feed you to the dog when she gets home," I'd whisper hoarsely at them, with my hand covering the phone's mouthpiece. "She's really mad. Listen..." Then I'd hold the phone out just long enough for them to hear a snatch of Time Lady's voice. Their eyes would expand to saucer size, they'd do one of those Wile E. Coyote leg rotations, then zing down the hall to their bedroom, dive under the covers and stay there for the rest of the night. For the record, Seth and Damian were idiots. They used to eat paint chips and drink water from the gutter. Given their miscreant dispositions and low IQs, I'm certain that they are currently guests of California's penal system.

Once, on a two-week trip to Australia, I got lonely for American accents. So I called the Time Lady just to listen to someone say, "At the tone, Pacific Standard time will be..." instead of "Eat th' town, Paceefeec Steendud toyme wheel buy..." It was so nice. Just like being home, except for the whole upside-down, Southern Hemisphere thing.

What you may not know (I didn't until I Googled it, just now) is that the Time Lady began her career in 1928. Based in Chicago, she and was actually two operators, sitting in front of a clock, reading out the time every 15 seconds. (And I thought my job was boring.) In the 1940s, the Time Lady's job got automated -- the two operators were fired and replaced with a machine playing Jane Barbe's pre-recorded, isochronal recitations. It was a cutting-edge technology and a much needed service for a nation of busily forgetful people with wind-up watches. But over the years, as technology advanced, watches got batteries and AT&T saw calls to the Time Lady fall off. Cell phones and computers made the Time Lady as obsolete as my parent's rotary Princess Phone. The 40-year-old equipment supporting her outlived its intended lifespan and the company that made it stopped supplying parts. California was one of the Time Lady's last bastions. Nevada still has her, but all the other 23 states served by AT&T (now including California) have bid her a fond farewell.

Now, I'm not a Luddite by any stretch of the imagination. I like all the nifty modern gadgets we have to play with these days. I love my iPod and the 2,572 songs I carry around on it. I love that I could (were I so inclined) listen to it continuously for 6.8 days and never hear the same song twice. I love no longer having to balance pennies on the arm of a record player to listen to hideously scratched LPs. (As an aside, let me say that there is something magical about listening to a scratchy version of Billy Holiday, singing Willow Weap for Me.  Somehow, it rings more true than the immaculate, digitally re-mastered MP3 version.) I also think it is unassailably cool that I can sit on my backyard patio, writing this blog on my laptop, sending a kajillion invisible ones and zeros flying through the air to my wireless modem and heaven knows where from there.

Yes, technology and progress are good things. But there are certain niceties of old that I am sad to see tossed by the wayside -- little bygone amenities that elevated us above our rough plebeian weft into the more refined silk of social fabric: bathroom signs that read "Ladies" and "Gentlemen" instead of displaying those grotesque little stick figures; office buildings with windows you can open to breath real air; turn-down service in hotels; coat and hat hooks on the outsides of restaurant booths; butchers who cut your meat to order; and the Time Lady. These things made us better people, really. Less grouchy. More punctual.

So on this tragic day, let us bow our heads in a moment of reverent silence and solemnly consider the passing of Time Lady. Let us offer a prayer for the repose of her soul. She was a giving, truthful woman, ever vigilant, never complaining, a latter day town crier. A paragon of constancy and dependability. Never impatient; never rude; always helpful. Known to generations of Americans, she will remain a fond memory of better days and finer things.