THE NIGHT THEY DROVE OLD TV DOWN

I'm not all that certain where I was. 

Most likely, I was sitting in a bar, mainly because this was the 1980s, and at that time I was still in the throes of trying to master that game. It's really a fairly easy game--at least for normal people. 

If you'll pardon me for a moment--let me explain this--for I think the rest of this long-winded whine will make a little more sense than it did when it was happening to me. 

 You see, I think too much. My mind is in the "on" position almost all the time. Sometimes, even when I struggle with the switch, I can't get the thing to go into the "off" position. Going to the maintenance department, otherwise known as the psychotherapist's office, hasn't really done much good. 

It's entirely possible I got a lemon at the brain factory, but there's a strict non-return policy on the mind you get at The Birth Store. 

When the brain is stuck in the "on" position, I'm caught thinking all sorts of things: From the aesthetic dynamics of structuralism all the way to "How do I look right now?"  All this stuff just swirls in my head like a cross between a tornado and a flushing toilet bowl. 

Early on, I learned that if I got drunk enough, my head would turn off. 

 Where's the advantage in that? Is it relaxation? Or is it so I can get in touch with pre-rational modes of thinking? 

You know what I'm talking about: Instinct. 

 Actually, although those two reasons amount to part of the equation of turning off one's mind, there's another, far more encompassing reason involved, one necessary for the self-perpetuation of the race. Not just the white race. Not simply the black one either. The human race. You see, we've managed by natural selection to make our brains so powerful that our brains have become obstacles to our ability to mate. In other words, when we're controlled by our brains, we lose touch with our bodies. 

And our bodies speak. Most of the time, we don't know how to listen. 

People go to bars where the music is so loud no one can talk, and many if not most imbibe massive quantities of alcohol, stuff that atrophies the rational centers of the brain. You can't think straight anymore, and you can't talk. What else can you rely upon if you can't rely upon your pre-rational communication?

 This is where the human mating ritual begins and resides. It's just below the surface of all that mental chatter.  When we turn off the mental chatter we can relate to the animal inside us. 

When we mate, by the way, people speak in gestures. The slightest movement can have a powerful communicative force. And if you're busy thinking about it, you can't "get real" in terms of listening to your instincts.  

Consequently, a lot of people are out getting drunk so they can get back into touch with all that stuff. It's so sad we don't know we're doing this. All those people just trying to shut it down and give it a rest. 

I was sitting in a bar, too, that night, the music wasn't so loud I couldn't hear myself talking and arguing over the basic principles of nothingness, otherwise known as abstractedness or racing thoughts.  

Please don't associate me with Mister Spock cavorting in a bar.  I wasn't calculating or rational.  I was lost in my head. 

Unhappy with the whole picture of that bar scene that night, I sat there paralyzed, mainly because I hadn't been able to meet anyone that night. In fact, I was honestly down about myself and the chances I had of ever perpetuating (to put this into rock bottom realities) my particular corner of the species. I bellied up to the bar in exasperation.  

Right.  I'd bellied up to the bar many times like this, and for me at least, finally bellying up to the bar was a gesture that I'd just decided to give it up for the night and crash the meat computer jailed inside my cranium. I pulled into that hardscrabble harbor like an old clunker going at the dock lopsided. That's when I got into the weirdest conversation. 

Some guy sitting next to me. He didn't seem strange at all. In fact, he looked as normal as anyone. But he had something important to tell me. He kept glancing at me as he slumped there on his stool. He'd eye me, sip a beer, murmur something to himself and then look around. 

 "I see you're not getting any," he growled. His voice was a crunch--the victim of too many cheap cigarettes and the house whiskey. 

"Nope," I said. I was trying to keep my game face. "Most of these women are all about money anyway. I think most of the women in Dallas are all about money. If you don't smell like money, you're never gonna get any." 

 I tried laughing, but it suddenly became obvious that the old guy sitting next to me would have nothing of my faux good spirits. 

 "Naw, it doesn't have anything to do with money, man," he snarled. "It does have everything to do with television, though." 

 "What? Did you say 'television'?" 

 "That's right, bud. Television. Your cerebral screen. And their cerebral screens. You might not be on the same channel as some of them chicks, man." 

"Well, I don't know what channel they're on. I think I've tried every channel I know. No luck tonight."

"They could be doing The Shopping Channel," he said. This was matter of fact. His tone of voice concealed no hint of humor. 

 "Yeah. Yeah, I think I get you," I said. "QVC." 

 "QVC. You know that's right. How come you're not selling?" 

 "What? Cheap jewelry?" 

 This time the guy laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh, but I could see he could relate. But what he said next perplexed me. "No. Wristwatches." 

 "What?" 

 "It's all a matter of timing, man." 

 "Yeah?' 

"It's kinda like dancing. Either you're in the rhythm of the moment, or you're not." 

"I see what you're saying," I said. But I was lying. I didn't have the faintest idea what he meant. 

"It seems like my timing has something to do with being able to talk to people. If I can't talk, I can't communicate." 

 "You're part of the TV nation, that's all. You're letting words and images get in your way. You gotta get beyond that. Wanna 'nother drink, man?" 

 So he bought me a beer. 

"Lemme tell 'ya something," he chimed in. "Some of us really got it bad, man. We just can't shut it off. That's why I do hallucinogens. There's no better way on earth to get the old head to buzz off than dropping a little acid." 

 "You on it right now?" 

 "Naw," he said. "I'm in recovery. I got past the old brain a bunch of years ago. Had fun doin' it too. Mind if I tell you a story? 

"O.K.", he began.  "This didn't happen all that long ago. I think it was the late seventies. Doesn't really matter.  Anyway, I used to be part of the Weather Underground.  You know who they were?  Those were the folks who got tired of Vietnam so bad that they started blowing up buildings because they was bringin' the war back home. 

"Bring it all back home. That was the motto.

"Back then, in the late seventies, we in the revolution had kind of run out of steam. Most of the folks went back to normal living when the war ended, and we discovered that the ones up for a real revolution were fewer in number than we'd anticipated.  Besides, things were really changing.  We'd had high hopes when we'd started, but, well, The Man.  The Man--he was a lot bigger than we thought. In fact, The Man was just too big.  We couldn't even take a piece outta The Man.  So our folks was pretty down," he said.

"Shoot. It was like the world had turned into this giant Quaalude. You ever take those?" 

 "I did once," I said. "I haven't seen much of it around. Last time I saw any Quays was when the B-52s came into town in '81. A bunch of artist buddies and I went to see them out at the Wintergarden Ballroom. Everybody did Quays but me. All the rest of the people in the Wintergarden Ballroom were pogoing--you know, that dance where people hop up and down? But my artist buddies were all just standing around, looking at their feet. It was hysterical." "

Why didn't you do any?" 

 "Ah, they wouldn't let me. They said I was down enough already. Said the whole deal was a gesture of support for my down-ness. Kind of a joke, I guess." 

 "You probably didn't need it," the guy said. 

"Anyway, like Quaalude," he added. "Back in those days, everybody was going straight for the TV tube, man. And there we were, still trying to get real. You got me? Anyway, we decided to punk out as they say. We were fed up. TV this, TV that. So we had us a little acid party. Turned out the lights, put on the Jefferson Airplane, dropped some purple microdot, and did one for the Revolution." 

 "How'd it work out for you?" 

 "Hell, man. We was watching the TV with the sound down when one of my buddies came out of the back room with a bunch of squirt guns. He gave one to each of us and said, 'See that candle on top of the TV? That's the Revolution. Fire at will!'"

"So we had us a real firefight, right there in this guy's living room. It didn't take more than five minutes. But we got that candle out, man. Pretty funny, eh? The weird thing, man, was that the wax from that candle dripped down into the guts of the TV and blew the sucker out. Right there in front of us. We'd been aiming to kill the Revolution with squirt guns and ended up killin' what the Revolution was trying to destroy! Ain't that something?" 

"What about turning off your brain and stuff? I'm not sure what you're trying to say to me." 

"Yeah, it was easy. You see, what you're trying to do is to turn off your head, right? But before you can really be a revolutionary, you gotta turn it on, right? You gotta learn how to get real, right? So when you turn off your head, you're turning off the TV, right?  You're going blank. So my advice to you is this: Quit fighting. Just go with it. If you wanna turn off the TV, well turn it off. No use fucking up a nice machine just because you don't like what it's saying. Got me? Just get real. My advice to you is this: The bar we're in is on TV.  In fact, it is the TV.  You might be in the wrong place at the right time. Got it?" 

To be perfectly honest, I don't think I did have it. 

A bunch of guys attacking a candle that supposedly represented the Revolution--with a bunch of squirt guns. And they end up shorting out the TV? What's that gotta do with learning to run on instinct? 

 I never saw that guy again. 

Things have changed a lot since then. In the 1980s, I never really got the hang of the bar scene. I eventually decided it just wasn't my trip--to put it into the lingo of the 1960s. 

My strong suit was talking anyway, conversing, and connecting with people. It's funny: When I think about it, when I talk, my instincts kick in, and I'm usually out of trouble. 

These days, when I pass that old bar--and it's still a popular hangout in Deep Ellum--I look into the window at all those people desperately trying to turn off, tune out, whatever. 

Looking through the window is like watching television. Picture me passing that bar: 

The Revolution will not be televised. Definitely not in my house.