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Michael Jackson is dead tonight.

Nobody born after 1984 can appreciate how big a star he was.  No pop culture figure can ever match the Beatles and Elvis for sheer overwhelming fame.  But if you lived during the early 1980s, Michael Jackson was the star.  When I was little, every kid had Thriller, and listened to it over and over again.  A new Michael Jackson video on MTV generated tremendous interest.  Kids at my school wore leather jackets with tons of zippers and tried to moon walk.  He was ultra-famous.

But, of course, he could never duplicate the success of Thriller.  Even if he continued to sell well through the rest of the 1980s, everyone compared his later work to Thriller or Off the Wall, and the comparisons were never favorable.  Combine that with his increasingly erratic behavior and freakish appearance, and before long Michael Jackson seemed like a sad carnival act.  While he had once been the one everyone wanted to emulate, he wound up being tabloid fodder.  A lot of it he brought on himself.  Some of it may have been unfair.  But, by the mid-1990s you could have queried a hundred Americans and not found anyone who’d claim to be a Michael Jackson fan.  “Thriller was good”, they’d say, “but that guy’s messed up”.

We live in a different age.  Everything is incredibly segmented now.  There isn’t just one MTV anymore to claim the attention of the young.  The 1980s saw the rise of some remarkable superstars, but the conditions that created those stars don’t exist any more.  Set aside the sham marriages, plastic surgery, baby-dangling, accusations of molestation, and all the other bizarre and disturbing behavior and rumors, and think back to the years 1983-1985.  There was nobody bigger than Michael Jackson.  And no athlete, movie star or singer will probably ever be that famous again.

The generation that first witnessed men fly heavier-than-air machines, then sixty years later reach the Moon and return safely to Earth, is no more.  The technological “giant leap” that endeavor required is still awesome to contemplate.  But the goal, however ambitious, was clear to many, even from aviation’s infancy.

I am not sure the same can be said of television.  Certainly, the generation that first developed the technology still lives.  But, unlike the pioneers of aviation who predicted space flight, I doubt many involved in the development of TV could have anticipated what the technology would look like today.  With the obvious exception of color broadcasts, my early TV experiences were probably not so different from those of kids growing up a generation before me.  Our set was fairly small, required an antenna, had no remote control, and received maybe four or five channels.  Today, though, TV is unlike anything I could have ever imagined.

While I was growing up, a 27″ television was considered very large.  A TV over 30″ was enormous.  Anything bigger than that–a projection TV, for example–was something you’d only see at a sports bar.  When I moved back to Gainesville in 2000, I bought a 27″ TV at Best Buy on Archer Road.  It was too big to fit in the back of my car, so Jeff and I took it out of its box, flattened that, and put the TV itself in the back seat.  I felt like a king with such a big screen.  For the first month I lived at 1600 4th Avenue North, I got free cable.  That is common in Gainesville, since everyone moves in August, and Cox often needs a month to connect new customers, and disconnect former customers.  Alas, they had cut me off just before the Sydney Olympics. Today I watch a TV larger than I ever thought I’d own.  And it looks better than I suspect anyone fifty years ago thought television could ever look.

On this enormous TV, I can choose from among a couple dozen high-definition channels.  Generally, I’ll choose PBS, or one of a handful of network shows that I enjoy.  We get a few movie channels in HD, too, which is nice.  In fact, I essentially avoid watching anything in low-def now.  I don’t mean to sound snooty about it, but once you have seen 1080p, 420i is unacceptable.  SDTV is the visual equivalent of hearing the latest digitally-mastered stereophonic recording played on an Edison wax cylinder.

One of the high-def channels we get is MLB, the Major League Baseball channel, and my interest in it came about in a strange way.

Repeats and syndication are probably as old as TV programming.  When I was very little, I remember watching re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch, and several other shows.  Later, when Nick at Night debuted, I loved The Patty Duke Show, The Donna Reed Show, The Beverly Hillbillies, Lassie, Mr. Ed, and several others.  I spent whole summers watching these black and white sitcoms with my grandparents.  I noticed that any television show that enjoyed a decent run would eventually be syndicated.  I never thought, however, that repeats of sporting events would be broadcast.  “Why”, I wondered, “would anyone want to watch a game for which they already know the outcome?”

Then, a month or so ago, I was flipping through the guide on the DVR, and I saw a listing on the MLB channel advertising a repeat of a June 17, 1978 game between the Yankees and Angels in which Ron Guidry struck out eighteen batters.  Now, even though I knew exactly what to expect by watching the game, I watched it anyway.  And it was great.  So, last weekend, when MLB was showing a 1998 Cubs vs. Astros game in which Kerry Wood struck out twenty batters, I couldn’t resist.  This is curious, because feats of great pitching don’t become apparent to the live audience until late in a game.  Nevertheless, I wanted to watch a game for which I knew the distinctive feature, and for which I knew the outcome.  It makes no sense.  Last night, I watched game seven of the 1965 World Series, and followed it with a Bob Costas interview of three former Major League umpires.  It was fascinating.

But, most significantly, an MLB channel repeat of an episode from the 1994 Ken Burns documentary, Baseball, so enraptured me, that I straightaway went to the Smathers Library and checked out the entire series on DVD.  I loved all nineteen hours of it.  The history of baseball really is the history of our country, and while the business of professional baseball is ugly, the game of baseball remains one of man’s few perfect inventions.

When I graduated high school in 1995, the best hope I had for keeping in touch with my friends was to know their phone numbers and mailing addresses.  Nobody I knew had email.  In fact, I only knew a few people who had ever been online.  So, I had many notes in my senior yearbook from friends and classmates that included a telephone number, and for a while I did stay in touch.  Indeed, I used to get actual letters from my friends off at college.  Life being what it is, however, I had, by 2000, lost track of many of those who had once been close to me.

Social networking websites have wrought much evil, but they have reintroduced me to several friends who had, for all intents and purposes, dropped off the face of the Earth.  Facebook has done more to counter the diasporic effects of time than anything else, and on Monday I experienced a rich reward: I had dinner with Erin Alvarez.

It had been almost ten years since I had seen her last, and until we found one another on Facebook, I couldn’t have guessed she lived here in Gainesville.  But she does, and she has a nice boyfriend, and we had a great time at Big Lou’s, and I am looking forward to spending lots more time catching up and hanging out.

Now if I can just persuade my friends Dan and Burt to move to Gainesville I’ll be set.

Thursday night is garbage night around here, and this evening I did my chore as usual, getting the recycling together, and wheeling the large can out to the curb.  It was getting dark as I did this, and I looked up to see an old white work van driving slowly down the street, stopping at the corner of my yard before backing up.  I could hear the occupants of the vehicle talking to each other and looking toward my house, and this had me a little concerned.  It is a bold burglar that goes casing a house while its owner stands in the yard.

Then I heard the driver say something–first to his companion, then to me–that both dispelled my fear and surprised me.  “My father planted that tree”, he said, pointing to one of the cedars in the front yard.  The man, who appeared to be middle aged, got out of the van, introduced himself, and told me his parents lived in this house when he was born.  For the next several minutes, in a very animated fashion, he told me stories about he and his brother and father, and what the house was like when he lived here, until his teen years.  He described the inside when he lived here (”the back room [which I now call the middle room] had a built-in wall bookshelf”; “there were parquet floors” [there still are]), and told me stories about how he and his brother used to play in the yard and on the great live oak, which, of course, is much older than the neighborhood.  He told me a few things I had already surmised (our foyer used to be a screened porch; there used to be a building on the slab in our back yard), but I was thrilled to have the opportunity to ask some questions I’ve wanted answered for years.  The square cut out of the slab in the back was where his father had a brick barbecue grill, until he and his brother broke it down with a hammer when he was seven.  The house used to be green.  The bathroom tile isn’t original because his father ripped up the floor to replace a pipe.  Before the Hewetts’ house was built, the block to the west was an empty field.  He told me that for most of his childhood the house had two bedrooms, but eventually they built a small room behind the kitchen.  So, I know now that something preceded the dining room and guest room that stand today.

This man seemed so thrilled to be sharing these memories, and I felt extremely privileged to be hearing them.  I think a lot about all the places I once called home.  I’ve even driven past a few of them just like this fellow did tonight.  I’ve never met any occupants of my former homes, but I would like to think they care for these places as much as I did, and still do.

I know a beautiful old song about a man who visits the house where he grew up, and meets the family that now lives there.  He shares his memories with them and it makes him happy, but he realizes that a house is “a hotel at best”.  Just as my new friend was “a guest” in this house, so too may I be.  Just as this house means something very special to him, it means something special to me.  And some day, ages and ages hence, I may drive slowly past it, and remember everything it means to me.

What has become of Christmas?  Today is Christmas Eve, a day of fondest childhood memories. But for a grown man, much of the enchantment of the occasion is lost.  Dickens wrote:

There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what it used to be–that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished hope or happy prospect of the year before, dimmed or passed away–and that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances and straitened incomes–of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune.

When I consider the suffering of others–the Hard Times in which Dickens lived (rim shot!)–and contrast it with my own many blessings, I shame myself with the slightest intimations of self pity by conjuring recollections of Christmas past.

Never heed such dismal reminiscences.  There are few men who have lived long enough in the world who cannot call up such thoughts any day of the year.  Then do not select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire–fill the glass, and send round the song–and, if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago…put a good face on the matter…and troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse.

So, with that in mind, Merry Christmas.  God bless Us, Every One!