I’ve always been more of a movie enthusiast than a television fan, but occasionally I’ll find a show that strikes me just right.

When I started watching NYPD Blue three months ago, I wasn’t sure how much I’d like it. I’ve generally like police dramas, and Steven Bochco was the producer of Hill Street Blues, a show I haven’t exactly been shy about fawning over to anyone who will listen.

Still, as a native Midwesterner (with certain sensibilities uncorrupted from living on the West Coast, I might add), I’m immediately suspicious of anything with “New York” emblazoned on it - the New York Stock Exchange, the New York Times, or especially the New York Yankees.

For whatever reason that may someday make itself apparent to my great-grandchildren, New York has managed to project it’s self-importance across the entire continent to Southern California. I see people walking around in Yankees caps and New York tourist attire, people who obviously have spent less than a month in that city. Next to Los Angeles, New York seems to be the destination of choice for individuals who are looking to make it big, be that individual an aspiring dancer, musician, or Garrison Keillor. I don’t begrudge New York the influx in population, but I do take issue with New York being portrayed as some sort of Land of the Gods that the rest of the country should be forced to daily genuflect in homage of.

Thankfully, NYPD Blue has been exactly the opposite of the show I thought it might be.

It has many of the features of a Bochco show, features I have come to enjoy. Chief among these is a large and diverse regular cast of characters, all written with an exacting eye for detail and developed in miniature story arcs that wax and wane throughout the seasons. Bit characters are never throwaways; not only do the actors who play them do so with conviction, but one never knows if a bit character will be elevated into a minor character as the storyline progresses.

Something else I appreciate is that NYPD Blue is an extremely serious drama. Two of the main characters from Season Two are recovering alcoholics, one is a widower, and another has a marriage barely clinging to existence. Each personal problem is examined in context, not glossed over, giving the characters humanity and depth. The show avoids being preachy by presenting the characters’ actions factually, allowing the viewer to make a judgment instead of the producer or director forcing one into the story.

The first television drama I can remember latching onto was Gunsmoke, obviously one I experienced via syndicated reruns. I can remember watching them on a tiny 10-inch black and white television set with my dad, catching them over the nighttime air in Trempealeau from WKBT in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Considering that my other favorite TV show at the time likely was 60 Minutes, Gunsmoke provided a great deal of entertainment while watching and loads of playtime fodder for an overactive imagination.

I loved all the characters equally except one, Marshall Matt Dillon. Marshall Dillon was Gunsmoke in my eyes, especially since most of the episodes we saw in syndication during the mid to late Eighties were from the earlier seasons. Chester was replaced by Festus, and Doc Adams was a great doctor (but only a doctor!), but Marshall Dillon was the large looming figure who shot the bad guy in the opening credits, protected the town throughout the course of the show, and was looked up to by everyone, from Sam the Bartender to Newly, the town gunsmith. When I made Lincoln Log towns and set up my plastic cowboys inside them, Marshall Dillon was always the one I gave the place of honor to.

Shortly after I got my feet wet with Gunsmoke I came upon a show that would last me through junior high, the original Star Trek, which eventually formed a perfect storm of nerdery for me, along with the then-new spin-off, Star Trek: The Next Generation. Star Trek paved the way to nerddom for me, something that has taken me the better part of ten years to accept.

The jump from Western to Space Western was easy enough. Instead of the brave and just Marshall Matt Dillon, I had the spontaneous and forceful Captain James T. Kirk; instead of crusty Doc Adams, I had even crustier Doctor McCoy; instead of goofy and countrified Festus, I had patently ungoofy and scientific Spock. It was as clean a cut as one could ask for, and over the next ten years the epicenter of my television watching was science fiction of the Star Trek type.

As I got older, I had dalliances with other shows. CBS had a great little show starring Danny Aiello, called Dellaventura, which lasted all of one season. I hated Star Trek: Voyager and picked up watching The X-Files instead. Once the X-Files movie came out and spoiled things I quit watching that show in favor of ER, the first true ensemble drama I ever watched.

ER never fascinated me the way Gunsmoke or Star Trek did, but it did pave the way for me to pick up watching a show called Hill Street Blues. I don’t remember how I came across the show at first, but the first impression it made on me came from the opening credits with that great quasi-mournful Mike Post theme played against the images of a gritty industrial city. Between work and school I didn’t have much down time, but I made room for a show that was rapidly captivating me.

Of course, we know where my love of Hill Street Blues has lead me. After finishing off Season Two, which exhausted all the episodes currently released on DVD, I started looking for something else to fill the occasional hour that doesn’t see me reading or surfing baseball news. I dithered in a choice between The X-Files and NYPD Blue, finally choosing the latter because I knew both Steven Bochco and Mike Post were involved in the show.

At first, I wasn’t impressed. The theme didn’t impress me (and has yet to grow on me), but the casting was good and the stories were even better. Season One hooked me easily enough, but oddly, I didn’t like quite a few of the characters. I wasn’t sad to see the end of Amy Brenneman’s character (I’ve detested her since I first laid eyes on Judging Amy years ago), David Caruso only barely raised my pulse as Dennis Franz’s partner, and Shelly Stringfield wasn’t particularly impressive, either. Instead of mourning the early losses to the show, I’ve fallen in love with the pairing of Kim Delaney and Jimmy Smits, and have been absolutely swept off my feet by the relationship between Franz’ tough, abrasive street cop and the smart and beautiful in equal measures Greek Assistant District Attorney, played by Sharon Lawrence.

What makes this all the more delicious is that I never intended to like NYPD Blue this much. I only required a diversion from Hill Street, something that would fill the space until this fall (when the Season Three of HSB is released). Instead, I’ve wound up with a show I like as much or better than two of my previous favorites, M*A*S*H and Six Feet Under.

I might be a little strange for getting so excited about early seasons of a show that has been off the air for over a year, a show I never watched while it was originally being aired, but I feel like I’m learning something about ensemble drama by watching the show in order, something that might serve me well if I ever tackle Lost or the original Law and Order.

Best of all, and in a complete 180 from my feelings on movie spoilers, I don’t feel guilty about looking ahead to see what’s going to happen in the show. I know that big changes will eventually take place, and it’s interesting to watch the writers piece them together, sort of like playing Tetris in reverse. I know Sharon Lawrence’s character is going to die, perhaps even this season, and I know Jimmy Smits and Kim Delaney will eventually leave the show, but that makes every episode all the more valuable and interesting.

Plus, like James Arness as Matt Dillon or William Shatner as James T. Kirk, Dennis Franz/Andy Sipowicz will always be there.

Sorry…

The Weekend Update has been delayed until Monday, as I had to take a friend to the airport on short notice today.

Chris, my friend, colleague, and host of this site, recently welcomed his firstborn, Kaira Azure, into the world. Kaira was born at 2:19 am on the 26th, weighed 5 pounds, 11 ounces, and was 32.5 cm tall.

Chris and I have known each other and worked together for three years, and I’ve never seen a guy more prepared to be a father than him. He and Katrina, his wife, will be moving to Colorado after he’s finished with his enlistment (18 days before I finish mine), and he’s already checked all the boxes to get him there. He’s a completely thorough individual, and I know he’ll be an excellent father to Kaira, making sure she develops into a well rounded lady.

I’m very happy for both Chris and Katrina and glad they’ll be able to go home from the hospital with their new addition today. I saw her at the hospital briefly tonight and she’s such a sweet looking little girl, with dark hair like her dad. She kept her eyes closed for the most part while I was there, and I got to witness her distinct aversion to the cold (unlike anywhere else around here, the hospital is air conditioned) when Chris pulled back her little cap to show me her hair.

Congrats to the new mom and dad, and a hearty welcome to little Kaira.

A Note

I stood a 24-hour duty post yesterday, and as such, I’m struggling to stay awake. I’m going to take a mulligan on my 1000 word per post goal tonight and rest up. Look for the Weekend Edition here around noon Pacific time on Sunday.

I first read one of my favorite books, Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, when I was working pastry at a restaurant in downtown Minneapolis. In the book, Chef Tony used the term “pirates” to describe a particular band of cooks he once worked with in Providence, Rhode Island, and that particular comparison sat well with me when I looked at the crew I was a part of.

We came from all different walks of life. Pete, the sauté guy, was the most pirate-like of us. He lived the hardest, cursed the loudest, cooked with the greatest frenzy, drank the most, and had a glorious strawberry-gold beard and curly hair which was always disheveled. Pete was completely self-taught, having worked his way up (as so many do in the industry) from washing dishes to premium-level line talent.

LeeAnn was, like Pete, self-taught, but she was newer to the game and compensated for a lack of experience with a financier’s attention to detail. She was the tallest cook in the restaurant, with gorgeous curly black hair that the chef required her to wear up under a hat, though her hair was actually shorter than mine at the time. On her days off she would help her boyfriend restore his Austin-Healy Sprite. She also could make a wickedly good cup of espresso.

Don was the super star. He’d graduated from a very prestigious culinary school in London, done a dream internship, and had come back to Minnesota. He worked the fish station, right next to Pete in the trenches. Don could drink nearly as well as Pete, but he didn’t give into his emotions quite as much, managing to remain somewhat more aloof. He was also a pretty cool cucumber under fire, and for this he was the unofficial leader of our band.

Anthony was the hotshot kid of the group. Fifteen times more confidant and boisterous than I was, he was also the better cook, owing mostly to an earlier start and more self confidence. Anthony would mess up from time to time because he was still learning, but everyone knew that one day he’d be just as good, if not better, than Don and Pete. Anthony was also the most caustic with the waitstaff, openly mocking them and needling them to the point of near exasperation.

There were a few others who worked with us on a consisent basis, but as a general rule you could find any one of the above individuals in the restaurant on any night the place was open. We’d go drinking at the downtown bars after the shift, occasionally we’d have parties at one apartment or another, and generally things were always smooth between us.

The thing is, we weren’t really that close as individuals.

The complete opposite has been true with my colleagues in the Marine Corps. To be honest, I don’t hang out with them perhaps quite as much as I did with the chefs I worked with four and a half years ago, but despite that, we’re a much tighter group.

Each one of us has individual strengths and weaknesses, but we’ve managed to tailor those into a cohesive fabric that serves our unit well. We don’t always agree, and occasionally we get quite hot under the collar with one another, but in the end we pull together in ways the pirates I used to work with couldn’t.

We look out for one another and for one another’s families, drive each other to the airport, treat one another to lunch, and address the concerns of each guy as best we can.

Lately it’s been a time for celebration.

Marty, our focal point and the longest-tenured guy in the office, departed in the early spring for civilian life after four years of service. We keep in occasional touch with him, and there are many days around the shop where his presence is missed. Sure, we’re glad he’s off pursuing his life free of hindrance - we just wish he could have done that here with us.

Sean, as I’ve mentioned before, has a brand new little boy at home. He was the first of three guys in the shop to announce his wife was pregnant, and as the second youngest, he tends to get the most ribbing. I like to joke with him that he’s “everyone’s kid brother,” but he’s shown me a lot of guts and taught me a few lessons over the past few months.

Chris, who hosts this site, is going to be joining Sean with a promotion to “Daddy” very shortly, a position he’s well suited for, and one he’s going to love. Chris is my resident source for any technical information regarding computers, a sort of one-stop shopping center of knowledge. He’s a former roommate of mine, too, and we joke about nerdily holing up in our room on Friday night with all the necessary foodstuffs and not emerging until late Sunday afternoon to get a haircut before returning to work on Monday. My thoughts have been with him, his wife, and the new life they’re about to bring into the world since early yesterday afternoon, and as such, I didn’t really have much in mind for an update today.

When I visit the hospital and have a picture to put up, I’ll post it. Until then, please keep a good thought out for Chris and his family.

Some time ago it came to my attention that a photograph of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s widow, Constanze, had surfaced in Altötting, Germany, a small town in Bavaria, the southeastern most state in the country. The photograph, a copy of an original daguerreotype, was believed to be one of the oldest surviving photographs in Bavaria. Constanze Mozart was said to be the left-most figure in the photograph (which appears at right), the elderly lady in black widow’s garb.

The BBC reported that the photograph had been found back on the 7th of this month, and the article remains on-line for viewing. Before reading any further, I suggest you check out the article to familiarize yourself with the story.

Sadly, it seems someone has put one over on the ‘Beeb.

A few experts have weighed in on the claim, and it appears that the photograph in question does not contain the image of Constanze Mozart for a variety of reasons. I was particularly amused to find out that this isn’t even the first time this particular photograph has been “found.” More on that particular bit of information later on in the story.

The most damning evidence in the case regards the technological state of photography at the time the picture supposedly was taken. One of, if not the earliest of outdoor portraits on record, taken by the pioneering Englishman William Henry Fox Talbot (and displayed at right), dates from 1842, the year Constanze Mozart died.

The reason for the exactness of the dates stems from the issue of exposure time, which, for a daguerreotype in the 1840s still amounted to around three minutes in length. This was significantly decreased from the previous exposures of twenty minutes, but certainly too much for an image of such clarity to be taken at the time. During this period the subjects of the photograph had to remain perfectly still, which is easy if one is photographing fruit or a landscape, but people, even the extremely patient folks of yesteryear, would need to consciously exert quite a bit of self-control to not move their head for three minutes, let alone a hand or elbow. Heaven forbid someone should sneeze.

When motion disturbance is exhibited in early photography, it tends to take the form of a blank white space, not the streaky image we are more familiar with today. This is because the methods of photography weren’t yet advanced enough to even register motion. In fact, the lenses needed for such outdoor photography hadn’t yet been invented by the time this photograph had been taken. Joseph Petzval, the inventor of the optics necessary for clear images in outdoor photography, made his findings in 1841, which, along with other substantiating evidence, makes it extremely unlikely that the visage of Constanze Mozart appears in the photograph as claimed.

The corroborating blow to this story comes from Agnes Shelby, author of Constanze, Mozart’s Beloved. By the time the photograph was taken Conztanze Mozart was already unable to travel due to particularly bad arthritis. Furthermore, it appears that her last communication with Max Keller, who supposedly was her host when the photograph was taken, occurred some fourteen years previously. Constanze was a meticulous diarist, and no record of either correspondence or travel to visit Keller exists after 1826, the year her second husband died.

The final blow to this story is delivered by a Dr. Michael Lorenz, from the Institute of Musicology at the University of Vienna, Austria. In an email to the blog Sounds & Fury, the site which has done the most to expose this hoax, Dr. Lorenz supplies the following juicy nugget:

“The ‘newly discovered’ picture of Constanze Mozart has already been published twice [emphasis mine] in the 1950s, the last time in an article by E. H. Mueller von Asow in the Österreichische Musikzeitschrift, March 1958, p. 93. For decades it has been known as a hoax among Mozart experts.”

Far be it for little old me to accuse the BBC of being taken in by the oldest trick in the book, but it certainly does appear that they fell for this one hook, line, and sinker. I’ll admit, the idea of Constanze Mozart having her picture taken was pretty exciting. In fact, I shared the story with Jo the morning after I read the original BBC article, and both she and I agreed that an actual existing photograph of Constanze was incredibly cool. I added that I had originally thought that it was fake, stating:

“When I first read the headline, I was like, “But they didn’t have cameras when Mozart was alive.”

And then I read it, and I felt a little stoopid.”

I might not have known exactly why I was right to believe something was out of whack, but I’ve gotta say, I don’t feel so “stoopid” anymore.

If anything, I’m actually more excited about this story now than I was when I actually did think it was Constanze. Who the heck is the lady in the picture? Photography experts think the photo dates not from the 1840s, or even 1850s, but from the 1870s. Constanze would have been dead for about thirty years by that point, and though I haven’t checked the dates, and maybe I should, just to be safe, I’m willing to bet Keller, her “host” at the time the picture was allegedly taken, was, too.

This entire event has not only captured my imagination, but it has completely superseded the Paul is Dead and Cottingley Fairies hoaxes as my favorite attempt to pull the wool over the eyes of the public. I might believe in vampires, ghosts, and a bunch of other completely silly stuff, but the blatant attempt to get away with resurfacing an already exposed hoax and passing it off as new completely takes the cake. If I come across any more details related to the photograph or the hoax, they will be posted here.