A B*L*O*G on M*A*S*H

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I made one of those bone-headed mistakes last weekend that will now haunt my nearly every day for the rest of my run. What did I do?

I googled Gary Burghoff.

Now, I knew better. The less you know about any performer the better. Just enjoy their art for what it is. 

But I’m on a bit of a M*A*S*H resurgence. AMC has been running hours and hours of it and I often click the channel guide and check in if it’s one of my favorites. 

The series finale, “Goodbye, Farewell, Amen,” aired February 28, 1983, and was watched by 126 million Americans, more than the Super Bowl and more than “Roots,” the landmark mini-series.

It remains the 9th most viewed program of all-time. It is the only show in the top 20 that was not a Super Bowl.

Running for 256 episodes from 1972-83, it started out fresh and hilarious and spiraled into tedious and moralizing — sort of like an hour conversing with me in in any bar after 10 p.m. on any Friday night.

It starts with that indelible “Suicide is Painless” theme song, at once dark and jaunty. The lyrics — and most of us know them remotely through the movie — are perfectly evocative of a show that for so many years nimbly careened between humor and despair. Did you know the lyrics were written by director Robert Altman’s 14-year-old son Mike and that he earned $1 million for the effort or $930,000 more than his dad was paid to direct?

Whatever genius for soundtrack composition the young Altman had, it seems to have peaked before he was old enough to drive. His cultural foot print beyond co-writing the M*A*S*H theme is faint.

Some M*A*S*H re-runs are among the funniest anyone in TV’s ever produced. These uniformly included the characters Trapper John, Henry Blake and Frank Burns.

Burns, especially, was critical to the humor. He was bumbling, mean-spirited, greedy, ambitious — sort of like Tony Soprano if instead of creating wounds Soprano sutured them with 3-Oh silk.

But Trapper and Henry were also essential. I think the show found the perfect balance between light and dark with the Season 3 finale when — Spoiler Alert! — Henry Blake dies in a plane crash. Still chokes me up.

The show remained funny at times but I believe it began to fade when it forsook its comedic emphasis. It tried mingling comedy with drama, but the humor seemed strained, the drama heavy-handed.

In short, it became a hybrid, a sort of M*I*S*H  M*A*S*H.

Yet, I still find it oddly compelling and am still intrigued by the cast, and enjoy sharing with friends obscure facts like Muppets creator Jim Henson based Miss Piggy on Hot Lips Houlihan.

Pursuit of facts like that are what got me into trouble.

See, I was watching the episodes where Radar departs.

What a great character. So innocent, so sweet, so much like the Teddy Bear he cuddled in his bunk.

So in his last episodes — it was a two-parter from Season 8 — he kind of mopes. He’s not funny, not sweet, a bit of a drag.

I start thinking about his character’s arc. Specifically, did Walter O’Reilly in eight years of drama and pathos ever get laid? Ever even take a tumble with a prostitute at Rosie’s?

He did not.

Radar left Korea a virgin! No wonder he was so mopey. Petting caged rabbits out behind the mess tent can only relieve so much stress.

I wondered if the trait extended to his real life. As always, the internet beckoned.

So I googled Gary Burghoff.

Guess what?

He’s 73 years old. And he’s a jerk!

This from the TV Guide story hailing the show’s run: “Although nobody wanted to be quoted for the record, the feelings about Gary Burghoff's leaving were fairly unanimous: loved Radar, hated Burghoff. As summed up by one of the principals: 'Gary had personality problems. He always felt there was a conspiracy against him. He was rude to everyone, but if anyone ever said anything back to him, he'd throw a tantrum. He had frequent spats with his cast members, particularly with Alan Alda. Once Mike Farrell told him that his problem was that he could dish it out but he couldn't take it, and Gary said, “And I'm getting real sick and tired of dishing it out." The poor guy didn't even realize what he'd said.’”

So now that’ll be in my head every single time sweet, lovable Radar appears on screen.

Distraught, I then compounded my error with another bone-headed mistake.

I googled Klinger and found out he’s a big Republican!

I wonder if I can get a 45-year-old sitcom declared a pre-existing condition for the lobotomy I’ll soon be seeking.

Related …

Happy 70th Birthday Maj. Frank Burns

Suicide is painless: RIP Robin Williams

Growing nostalgic for when TV was still stupid

When “Breaking Bad” collides with “Love Boat”

TV-holics prepare for bender

Sunday re-run: It was a very zombie Thanksgiving

Interested in zombies? You’ll like this post. Not interested in zombies? You’ll like this post. This ran after Thanksgiving weekend when I was feeling a zombie bloat. I thought this evening’s debut of AMC’s “Walking Dead” made re-running this one a good idea. Plus, I think it’s just funny. 

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Do zombies ever feel a Thanksgiving bloat like the one I felt? 

“I can’t take one more bite!”

Zombies are either walking around looking for something to eat or engaged in actual eating.

That was me the last four days. The only difference with me was I at least watched a little football. While I was gorging, of course.

I wonder if it was a coincidence AMC’s acclaimed “Walking Dead” zombiefest ended its jiffy little 10-episode run on Thanksgiving weekend, the holiday renown for rapacious eating. 

I’m not a zombie nut. I enjoy “Walking Dead” and consider “Zombieland” one of the funniest movies ever, but I don’t spend a lot of time planning for the zombie apocalypse.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about zombies, their diets, their social lives and if I’ll eventually make a good one.

Take this weekend. As zombies are wont to do, I overate. But I have the tactile dexterity to unbutton the top button on my blue jeans to liberate my belly press, which enables me to eat another three plates full of leftovers.

Zombies can’t do that.

I’m surprised how, on the “Walking Dead” at least, you never see a tubby zombie. They all seem zombie svelte. It’s as if dining on pounds of fellow humans helps shed pounds off the diner.

The irony is devastating.

Let’s hope the idea of the zombie diet doesn’t get around at the fitness centers.

Why are they so thin? Could it be all that walking?

I enjoy aimless walking so I’d be cool with that part of being a zombie, much more so than if the show turned out to be the “Jogging Dead.”

Another surprise: I’ve never seen a naked zombie.

When you think about this, it’s remarkable. 

If you go by the “Walking Dead” timeline, these zombies have been walking around dead for four years wearing the same clothes — and that’s another assumption.

I’ve never seen any zombie lore that says zombies try and keep up with the latest fashion or take time to change into fresh duds.

But four years? They should all be naked by now. But of all the zombie hordes I’ve seen I’ve never seen so much as a single a zombie breast or butt cheek.

It’s surprisingly prim for a show that features historically high levels of heinous TV violence.

It’s like the AMC censors say, “Okay, we’re fine with Daryl using a zombie head for a homicidal bowling ball, with cannibal Gareth having a cheerful conversation with the man whose leg he’s eating and, yeah, it’s fine to show closeups of zombies yanking entrails out of screaming humans, but for God’s sake, make sure you re-shoot that scene that showed a glimpse of that exposed zombie nipple! We have standards to maintain!”

It’s true. Zombies never experience wardrobe malfunctions.

And who’s doing all the human barbering in the zombie apocalypse? My friends at the bar look more disheveled — and those are the attorneys!

It’s like Rick enforces grooming standards. Hollywood and zombie apocalypse must be the only places where great hair supersedes all else.

The zombies? Heck, my hair’s messier.

It proves to me that producers are more interested in special FX Emmys than true zombie authenticity.

It won’t be truly authentic to me until you hear one of the cast utter the obvious line, “Dammit. I just stepped in a huge pile of zombie poop!”

So how will I do in a zombie apocalypse?

Well, as a zombie I’ll be fine. It’s all so aimless. It’d be sort of like what I do now, but without all the blogging. Really, it’s like I’ve spent the past six years practicing to become a zombie.

How would I do as a human survivor?

I’ll thrive, I’m sure.

That’s because I’ll adopt the only superhero persona sure to endure. I’ll be silent. I’ll blow around with the wind, practically invisible, but always persisting in the shadows.

I’ll be The Dust!

I’ll survive when all others are doomed to become zombie chow.

Why The Dust?

Because everyone knows true zombies never bite The Dust.

Related . . . 

Zombies at The Pond

Talkin’ Turkey (the Republic of) on Thanksgiving

Sarah Palin & the zombies

Setting the record straight: Lies I told The P-G

A Thanksgiving salute to servicemen & women and Ray Davies

On "Mad Men," drinkin' & the Swingin' '60s

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Anyone who endeavors to conclude a landmark television series with even a splash of panache ought to send a gift basket to David Chase.

It’s because of Chase, creator of “The Sopranos,” that the bar is forever set so low on shows like “Mad Men.”

People knew going in that the show would be satisfying as long as it was better than the ending for “The Sopranos.”

Heck, we knew that as long as it provided ANY ending.

And I loved this ending.

Everyone was happy!

Well, not Betty. But she was always a bit of a wet blanket.

I don’t know why. It couldn’t have been because she suffered from any unreasonable pressure to remain sober.

In fact, nobody did.

None of the history lessons ever informed me that sobriety was such a ‘60s afterthought. Sure, I knew most of the young people were experimenting with altered realities on the free love college campuses.

And where’s a reliable time machine when you need one?

I just didn’t know the stuffed shirts against whom they were rebelling were all gooned up, too.

And doesn’t that explain a lot about the history of the ‘60s!

I’ve always contended they made a mistake when they called the Jon Hamm character Don Draper.

He should have been Don Drinker.

Norm on “Cheers” drank less.

It took me until late last year to get on the “Mad Men” wagon. Val and I’d checked out some of the early episodes, but I found something off-putting about each of the characters. Thus, they failed my companionship test which is: would I want to sit down and spend an hour eating lunch with any of them?

If the answer is no, then why would I want to watch them going about their mean little lives?

I didn’t like Peggy (too driven); I didn’t like Don (too uptight); I didn’t like Betty (I suspected she’s the reason Don’s uptight). I didn’t like Bert (too averse to common footwear); I didn’t like Joan (I don’t like being dominated by boobs); and I didn’t like Pete (too much like Major Frank Burns).

Sure, Roger was hilarious and seemed incapable of drawing even a single sober breath. But I’m already friends with about three dozen guys just like that. Three of them, in fact, are already named Roger and the redundancy seemed unnecessary.

The show finally caught my interest about a year ago when I’d wake up at 6 a.m. on Sunday mornings when AMC was running 3-hour chunks of it. I decided to settle in.

It’s exquisitely shot. Nothing is amiss. The sets were museum quality. And I began to appreciate how the flaws in the characters propelled the stories.

Plus, I adored how they wove our tumultuous history into every story line.

The 1960s in America were as lethal and chaotic as the 1860s, a trend which has me hoping I expire sometime before Dec. 31, 2059.

It’s a decade in which the ultra-liberal Lyndon B. Johnson won the presidency by a landslide, only to be hounded from office four years later in an landslide presided over by the ultra-conservative Richard M. Nixon.

What the hell was going on?

Well, if you watched “Mad Men” you realized a lot of hell was going on.

Lawrence of Arabia, British Beatlemania, Selma, birth control, Ho Chi Mihn, Richard Nixon back again, moon shot, Woodstock, JFK blown away …

We didn’t start the fire.

Maybe Sterling Cooper Draper & Pryce did.

I found the finale’s conclusion euphoric and for a show that so often plumbed the depths of despair, emphatically hopeful.

It straddled the line between parody and homage, a fitting stance for a triumphant show that so elegantly danced that line throughout an epoch that pirouetted between the waltz and The Funky Chicken.

And that’s as good a place as any for me to wrap it up.

I hope you found the ending satisfying.

Either way, I think I’ll send David Chase a basket of onion rings for setting the bar so low.

Related …

Growing nostalgic for when TV was more stupid

Mel Gibson & other random thoughts on Mad Men

“Breaking Bad” vs. “Sopranos;” and the winner is …

310 words on “Breaking Bad” finale

Reunited: TV & me

The TV has become the penis