Me and TV have never really gotten along. We tried living together . . that’ didn’t work. We tried marriage, big mistake. We even tried just being friends who called each other on Sunday to catch up, but no. It never really came together, me and TV. And so it should come as no surprise that when it came to Breaking Bad, I was gonna go the way of deep fried tossed cookies.
And I did. I failed, miserably, for the five seasons this groundbreaking series was on the air. I dismissed the idea of Bryan Cranston . . he of Malcolm in the Middle fame in the role of bad ass outlaw. And as time went by and it became apparent that Cranston kinda sorta knew what he was doing in the role of a bad ass outlaw? Well, by then I was heavily sedated on a miasma of different ideas that made appointment television seem silly in comparison. Okay, the truth of the matter is that I don’t watch groundbreaking television. It’s way too pretentious sounding. It reeks of PBS meeting Oprah and making a baby with a trust funded umbilical cord.
Then Sunday night happened, and then I was watching. My first episode of Breaking Bad, as in ever. And it just so happened to be the most satisfying hour and change I have spent on a bad thing since I visited Durham, North Carolina and ranched out at a motel that offered discounts if you drove an El Camino. Yeah, it was the kind of fun where you love and you curse and you imagine leaving a tip . . Vegas frisbee, all in, like that.
I’m not sure what compelled me to watch. Although it probably had something to do with the fact my girlfriend was away on business, but hey, let’s go with mysterious intervention here since that’s way more romantic sounding. And Breaking Bad had always been a mystery to me. An odd compilation of pig latin water cooler talk and alien sounding tag lines that seemed funny enough to sniff, if not tempting enough to taste. Until I did. After which I was crushing inside a lingering spit of roiling yum.
Who knew meth kingpins could be this much fun? Outside of the Jacksonville Jaguars, I mean.
So after watching this intense, tightly written finale to a show I had once made a point of paying no mind to . . . I posed a question to myself. Did I want more of the same? As in, go back to when Bryan Cranston had his first set of hair and a sitcom resume that warranted more snickers than a Halloween bag? Or did I just want to let it be? Just be happy with this ending, this one place, where all the breaking bad . . turned magnificent?
I decided on the one night stand. To love it as I found it, learned off scraps and pieced together inside of random conversations. Like that. As a human fielded piece of art whose command on me was undeniable inside the finite stream. It’s like tricking the dangerous pursuit into an innocent cage, and it makes my Sunday night something more than must see. Way more.
And now, last things first. This video spill isn’t for Walt, not completely. It’s an equal time spot of friendly I’m going Hail Mary on, for a friend whose look would have given Walt a run for his bad ass money. A man who might have been a father if God would have created a sense of humor before getting busy on the birds and bees and Astrodomes. A man whose loss I’m struggling with and doing a piss poor job at in the struggle.
Yanno what? I’m hopping out of here for right now. I have to go and find my patch of grass. This news just happened as I was dealing up this post, so please forgive my hit and run. I’ll be back tomorrow to visit upon you all ways Cayman. I’m loving you in the meantime. Ever thankful.