To: Mary Schmich, more or less
From: Eric Zorn on the dot
It’s exactly 9:52:34 a.m. as I begin.
Trust me. The clock at my desk is regularly calibrated by a radio signal from the National Institute of Standards and Technology in Boulder, Colo., the official timekeeper for the U.S. I no longer add “-ish” or “just about” when I report the time. When I tell you that it’s now 9:58:50 a.m., you may set your feeble, approximate wristwatch with confidence.
These once-pricey gadgets have moved into the mainstream–I bought an Atomix model for our kitchen for $20 at Wal-Mart–and I’ve grown obsessed with their precision. Once or twice a day I click onto NIST’s Web site and enjoy the synchronous advance of seconds on my clock and theirs.
I mention this because a time fetish strikes me as a Guy Thing, and I want to assure you I am All Guy even though I want to talk about TV’s “Once and Again,” a certified “chick show.”
Do you watch? It airs on ABC Monday’s at 9:00:00 p.m. and follows two intersecting suburban Chicago families in the wake of divorce. The writing and plotting is so brilliant–our Steve Johnson has compared it to a “finely wrought novel”–that I watch regularly even though the characters burst into tears so often that friends have renamed it “The Crying Show.”
If you do watch, we can write columns all next week fiddle-faddling about whether Sam will break Judy’s foolish heart, whether Rick should get back with Karen and dump that creepy Lily, whether Jessie’s a lesbian or just curious and whether it will be Mr. Dmitri or Eli who deflowers the delightfully ungainly Grace.
But the big question for many devotees now is whether the 40th-ranked show can be saved. Forecasts of its imminent cancellation have touched off one of those letter-writing campaigns that occasionally win reprieves for shows or comic strips with comparatively small but dedicated followings.
Yet as superb as “The Crying Show” is, I feel such entertainment, like good novels, ought to come to an end before artistic fatigue sets in. I’m hoping only for a farewell show in which the actors tie up loose ends and exhaust their last box of tissues.
Over to you at 12:25:15 p.m.: Have any imperiled diversions ever inspired you to write a letter of protest? Wanna buy a new watch?
To: Watchful Zorn
From: Timeless Schmich
Sorry. I don’t even wear a watch. Not since I was 22. And 22 was three or four years back, give or take a few minutes, which is to say it was back in the pre-digital days when watches still ticked.
Unfortunately, watches would not tick on me. I’d buy one and within a short time after putting it on my wrist, it would be as lifeless as a paper clip. I decided to stop buying watches and spend my money on earrings.
A few years after I gave up watches, I read that certain people have electromagnetic fields that confuse or kill watches. Whether that was my problem, I’ve enjoyed the idea that my eccentricities are all the result of an electromagnetic field that can stop time.
And giving up watches was liberating. Back when I wore one, I was always looking at it, and as long as I kept looking at it, I could feel my life eking away one tick at a time.
Becoming watch-free has other benefits. You can wash dishes without fear of getting your watch wet. You never have to worry about losing one. You never have to glance mournfully at your crummy Timex when an ad comes on TV for those Philippe Patek watches worth your annual salary.
Oddly, however–and many of the watch-free will tell you this–I almost always know what time it is, within a margin of error of five minutes. This results from a combination of sneaking peeks at other people’s watches; casually noting the time on the vast array of public clocks; and hearing an internal clock that gets cultivated in the absence of that crutch called a watch.
I am almost never late to an appointment, or if I am I know perfectly well by how many minutes. I also am rarely late tuning into any TV program I enjoy, which does not include “Now and Again.”
“Now and Then?” “Once Upon Again?” At any rate, it’s probably swell, and I’m all for people sticking up for their art-house or boutique tastes in entertainment. But any show that doesn’t star Jerry Orbach isn’t worth my time.
