I remember, vaguely, the surreal worlds, the constant bevy of funny characters and the refreshingly low-budget aesthetic, as if some sort of phenomenological process were taking place within comedy, within television and within my life. I remember Nancy Kerrigan getting attacked and everybody making fun of her, including, I think, a dude at the Academy Awards. I remember Kurt Cobain going into a coma and then killing himself. I remember the OJ Simpson murder and the the lengthy Ford Bronco chase, at which point, I think, we all knew he did it, Johnny Cochran’s input notwithstanding.
And I remember at some point realizing that artistic quality, if not necessarily a bad thing, is a necessary evil in terms of invariably being tied to veritable humanitarian atrocity. Rock and roll IS sadness. The two terms are interchangeable. And if Chuck Berry didn’t teach you this then surely the ’90s’ did, with LIVE, with Hootie & the Blowfish, whose Darius Rucker said “I’m a stranger in my home”; with Collective Soul, who were “Drinking alone of newfound pity / All alone in New York City / And I don’t know why”; and yet still had Billy Corgan as a high-profile hater (hence spawning the song “Smashing Young Man”; as I read I believe on UCR, or one of those sites).
I am casting a sonorous blip out here, into the atmosphere, of fear, but mostly out of respect for this show. I remember watching this show. And I remember being an 11-year-old boy. And I remember being a little scared. And I remember how artistic quality didn’t really solve anything. I like it, I guess. I don’t really know. I still have all my limbs attached to me. I mean, I’m probably not going to make the local news anytime soon, let alone the national news. The locals news teaches you about this world. If it bleeds, it leads. Well, they get you when you’re happy, when you’re feeling your freedom, on a sunny Saturday, or even going into work. And, sure, Ronald Goldman dug his hand into the cookie jar. That’s one for the fables.
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