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When the Army shipped Richie Cunningham off to Greenland, I didn’t realize Ron Howard actually left the show. I waited through every subsequent episode for his return. Because, you see, I identified with Richie Cunningham. I yearned to see his expected cross-over into the Thumbs-Up “Ayyy” Universe of Arthur Fonzarelli Coolness. I wanted to chart the course—so that, one day, I, myself, could embark on the enlightening journey toward all that is Fonzie; and also so that, one day, I could raise my head and proudly say, “Yes, I Jumped The Shark. And all by myself, too.”

How many of us can honestly say that we’ve reached the point of the Jumped Shark? How many of us have truly—and even boldly—gone that far?

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Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
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S T R E A M # 3 0

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