Rest In Peace, Rockford

For those of you who haven't heard, James Garner, the actor who played (among MANY roles) Jim Rockford on the TV series, "The Rockford Files" died on July 19th. I could talk about Garner's career widely, but "The Rockford Files" is his performance I know best, as well, I just feel like talking about "The Rockford Files".

For those of you who are too young to remember "The Rockford Files", let me just give a sketch. "The Rockford Files" was a weekly episodic crime/action series that ran on NBC from late 1974 until about January of 1980. The show focused on ex-con, Jim Rockford (James Garner), a private investigator in Los Angeles. Episodes usually involved Jim getting hired by some desperate client who couldn't pay him but because he was a nice guy, he always helped them out. Jim's clients usually needed his help because they were being chased by some drug dealers, Mafiosi, white collar criminals, government spooks, the police, jealous lovers, and sometimes all of the above. Each week, Jim used his street smarts and PI skills to find, elude, confuse, entrap, and ultimately overcome the rogues gallery that troubled his clients.

Tough crime and investigation-oriented shows were  pretty popular in the 1970's. For instance, you had Columbo, McMillan, McCloud, Cannon, Streets of San Fransico, Baretta, and so on. And while all of those were good, solid shows in their own rights, The Rockford Files broke the mold. What all of the previously mentioned shows had in common is that their protagonist(s) was/were always law enforcement. There were always the good guys with the badge, following the television dogma established by shows like The Untouchables and later, Dragnet and Adam 12. Jim Rockford was no law enforcer. He was a wrongfully convicted ex con who often butted heads with the police and the FBI when chasing goons around LA's seedy underbelly. In fact, lawmen were often portrayed as misinformed, incompetent, and even antagonistic (bad) on The Rockford Files.

The Rockford Files wasn't a procedural. It was "Noir". Think of those movies from the 30's and 40's but in double-knit polyester. Every week, Jim was in the middle. He took-on cases not knowing if he would get paid, laid, arrested, or killed. And as much as Jim complained about the money, he did what was right. And I think that was James Garner's real gift to the character. Rockford was a sly, cynical smart-ass, but he was above all human and decent. And really, that's the greatest challenge ANY actor faces, especially in television. How to make this fiction seem real? Garner somehow did it. Week-after-week, that hackneyed gumshoe didn't seem so hackneyed. He was often neurotic, frustrated, cheap, and regularly got the shit-kicked-out of him. Rockford wasn't Sam Spade... he was the guy next door.

Willa Cather, Teenagers, and Jungle Juice

Writer Willa Cather is quoted as once saying, "You know everything that you need to write a book when you are fifteen-years-old."

To which, I respond so eloquently, "Bullshit and Shenanigans!!" One thing about fifteen-year-old's, including the smart ones, is that they all have a SHIT LOAD to learn about life... especially their own. They have no introspection, and rightfully so. Early adolescence shouldn't be complicated enough to warrant introspection. Of course, Willa Cather wrote about blue-eyed stoics carving-out lives on the wide-open prairie. She left the ugly, interesting stuff to cynics and misanthropes like yours truly.

The teenagers today freak me-out. Perhaps because I'm of that age now when you begin to see distance between now and then. I was never a normal teenager, and in fact, I've really never felt comfortable around teenagers, even when I was one. Probably because I was one of those unfortunate teenager's cursed with introspection. Have you met a teenager who wants to buy a Town Car and retire? All those care-free, blissfully ignorant teenagers got to enjoy an adolescence of dances and parties, dates and awkward crushes, Jagermeister and silly clothes. As for moi, it was a beige suit, Merlot, and a whole lot of contemplation. Some of us try to be something that we just aren't, to fill a role, to become something, to wear a pair of someone else's shoes.

It really wasn't until my junior year of high school that I started being honest with myself. Of course, it was no easy task. Let me just gives kudos to the movies and a lot of rock'n'roll. And honestly, I know a lot of people twice my age who have never had a moment of introspection whatsoever.

I once took an opportunity to try "Jungle Juice", a cocktail of Cool Aid and a nearly lethal libation called "Everclear". I was surprised by its tolerable taste, especially when considering that Everclear is 190-proof. However, I was not surprised enough to explicitly offer Tom G's seal of approval. I'll stick to my Porters and Ales, thank you. Despite Jungle Juice's failure to wow me, I suppose its a quick and easy way to get banged-up if you're a teenager burnt-out by introspection, Willa Cather, and life in your sleazy little town.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the hits of 80's await me.

Old Stuff

As the years pile on, so do memories of things one USED to own. Old things, once irreplaceable accouterments of the daily minutia, now lost to the blurry gloom of time. An old pair of shoes that took us miles, an old video cassette (remember them; the thick, heavy black things that nobody EVER rewound) that entertained us, an old videogame that occupied so many hours. So many things bought and used. So many dollars spent on things we can barely remember having.

The boxes those things could fill. Long hours spent looking for them. Rummaging through old closets and niches, exploring darkened corners and remembering moments in time that you thought you would forget. But you never do. You know the one's, those scenes of the past that replay. You can feel the emotion, picture all the little details, and hear all the voices as though it happened only yesterday... even after twelve or fifteen years. Some things you would like to forget, but never will. Some moments that you wish you could reach-back to change. But you can't.

An odd thing, that. The abstraction of time, so loose and so unreal, becomes something like stone once the moment drifts by. There! See it. Now that moment is gone, and you cannot unread what you have just read, nor retract that mumbled "what-the-fuck?" you just uttered in response to this rambling, rolling diatribe.

Screw the memories, WHAT ABOUT THE STUFF!! All that stuff. All the shit that was bought. All those chochkies that they no longer make. Some of it has to have at least SOME collector value. As time rolls-on there's less and less of it still around, what's left out there must get more valuable. What's an old videotape worth? Nobody uses them, but surely someone must want them.

Christ, if only you had saved half-of-it... if only.