Click. I still can see Madden, of course. Click. I can see Walsh. Click. Here is Bob Trumpy, right now. He is standing on the field at the Hula Bowl. He is wearing some kind of walkie-talkie contraption on his head. He seems so silly. Click. Here is some British footage. British navy planes have destroyed some mines in the water. There's the mine. Boom! The mine is gone. Click. Here is some women's ski race from Europe, part of "The Road to Albertville." Albertville? Click. Here is the President of the United States. He is getting out of a limousine in front of the Pentagon.
I stare at the pictures as if I am Alice, drawn down a rabbit hole into some dreadful Wonderland; as if I am Dorothy, pulled from Kansas by a terrible tornado. Up has become down, and left has become right, and a hero does not wear expensive gym shoes anymore. Click. I am like everyone else. I try to listen to familiar voices for reassurance and fun, but they simply don't sound the same. We all have become prisoners of real life.