Of the 60’s, all I recall are its cartoon reruns in the 70’s,
namely The Jetsons. I watched that kooky, space-age
surrogate family in my underwear, my brother and I eating
Funyons for breakfast sprawled on the carpet of our ground-
level apartment while Mom worked the opening shift at
Things, Things & Things. That fantasy world revealed
nothing of the world we lived in. Tidy, presentable parents.
A dopey, anthropormorphic dog called Astro. A home where
many rooms existed behind many walls. Nevermind the obvious―
holographic phones, cars that zipped like planes, robots,
meals like vitamins, condensed into a single pill. Suspended
above earth, there were no trees or birds, sun or moon,
the green of a plush lawn one could step onto from an open
window and track like a thick shag― nothing to indicate
a place of origin; every living scenario stilted and domed,
positioned in the antiseptic serenity of a cirrus-feathered sky.
If this was the future we were watching from the past, then
hands-down I’d trade the present. George never left one night
never to return. June didn’t come home some mornings reeking
of smoke and stale booze; beneath her tufted bed-head the mascara-
smudge of Saturn’s rings. Judy and Elroy never fought over
the last sugar sandwich, who was going to steal the next
candy bar. Never a parent unavailable to sooth a child sobbing
in bed. Although, at times, the kids complained and the parents
squabbled, the constructed dynamic of their relationships was
always a palliative rinse. And that’s why I liked that Hanna-
Barbera show― beneath the obligatory turmoil, their lives
seemed balanced, uncomplicated. Problems that arose didn’t
feel “problematic”. Merely annoyances, silly insecurities, petty
misunderstandings my brother and I snickered at always resolved
by episode’s end.
