There was no word of it on Los Angeles’ KDOC-TV Channel
38, which I had on the tube for most of the week. I found out when
Christy (my common-law wife) went online to check out the recaps of
ABC’s “All My Children” and “General
Hospital.” Sure, she was going to join my public crusade
against the Big 4 networks, but she still needed her regular soap
fix.
“Mister Rogers died,” she said over her shoulder. I
could tell from her voice that she hadn’t figured out how to
take it yet.
“My god,” was all I managed, but then I realized
something. “It must have been them that got him!” I
said, pointing at the television.
It made perfect sense at the time. It was a textbook mafia-style
hit, done not out of fear but to prove a point. The Big 4 had
established complete control with the reality-TV racket, but they
wanted to make sure that the folks behind public television knew
what was what. And if they did that to Mister Rogers, I knew the
major players of student-run media were next.
“We’re getting out of L.A.,” I told Christy
while stuffing a duffel with only the essentials: Kerouac, Thompson
and Fante. “If they did this to Fred, it’s only a
matter of time before they get to me.”
Christy appeared to have no idea what I was talking about. But
she grabbed her yoga mat and followed me down to the garage.
“Someone has to make sure you don’t hurt
yourself,” she said.
We took the car north, sticking to the coast, driving slowly,
acting like all the other tourists. It wasn’t until I
happened across an NPR affiliate just beyond Santa Barbara that I
heard Rogers actually died from terminal stomach cancer. But the
confirmation did little to quiet my nerves. I knew The Big 4 had
people on the inside, big-name doctors and public officials who
would say anything for a free 30-second commercial spot, even if
it’s only on “Jimmy Kimmel Live.”
It was past dark when Christy and I made it to Santa Cruz. We
found a Denny’s after refueling my Geo. Inside, a television
was on the latest reality-slop, ABC’s “The
Family.” Watching it after being away from network TV for so
long was like lighting up a cigarette after swearing to quit for
the fifth time and almost succeeding; my eyes began to water, my
throat burned and I couldn’t help but let out a couple of
rookie coughs.
“I can’t believe this,” I said, sipping hot
black coffee. “It’s like “˜Joe Millionaire,’
“˜Dynasty,’ and “˜The Sopranos’ all rolled
into one.”
“I can’t wait to hear what the Italian
Anti-Defamation League has to say about this,” Christy said,
her eyes fixated on the television.
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied.
“Whatever they say, the ratings are just going to go up up
up.”
Some homeless man in the booth next to us began waving his arms
and pointing at the screen.
“That’s my baby,” he said to no one in
particular. “I did lunch with George Hamilton and I thought
it up. I sold the rights to ABC but they found a loop-hole in my
contract and they threw me out.” He began to weep.
I threw my salt and pepper shakers at him, hitting him square on
the head with both of them.
“Shut up!” I hollered. “Can’t you see
we’re in mourning? The only nice guy on earth died for our
sins last week, and you’re here asking us to tell you if this
crap-riot is hot or not? Have a heart!”
But the man didn’t have a chance to rebut. Some bald dude
in a windbreaker tore in and walked right up to him.
“Mickey Mouse and Michael Eisner send their
regards,” the dude said, shooting the homeless man once in
the chest and twice in the head ““ execution-style.
We fled through a back door. I gave a startled busboy a five for
the coffee on the way out.
“Who’s paranoid now?” I asked, pushing Christy
into the car.
And we’re still on the road. I can’t say where
exactly, for obvious reasons. I’ve started to watch the Big 4
again but for a greater purpose. Maybe eventually I can find a
pattern or some Achilles Heel that I’ll be able to use
against them. But until then, I’m keeping to the road.
The Big 4 are dealing in television, a fickle demon if there
ever was one. They can’t stand on reality forever.
Somebody’s got to topple, and it’s going to be
loud.
This column was sent to us scribbled on pink napkins. If you
have information on Cobb’s whereabouts (or the Big 4
conspiracy), please e-mail us at ccobb@media.ucla.edu.