There’s a reason I watch Magnum P.I. reruns.

(and it’s not the short-shorts)

And I came to the epiphany that I watch the show in a fashion I could compare with that of my grandparents years ago, who would gather behind TV trays with cups of Folgers-crystals-coffee, perched on their vinyl couch.

To watch Saturday night Lawrence Welk.

Their enthusiasm was infectious.

And seeing Bobby and Sissy through their eyes almost made me a pastel-Muzak jazz believer.

Almost.

But I never questioned them. Saturday night was their time. It was set aside and kept quiet, but for the gentle sounds of the Welk orchestra, and my grandparents’ corresponding affirmations.

Then it struck me: Their motivation for champagne bubbles may have not been too different from mine with Magnum.

It’s familiar. 

It’s pleasant.

And when 40-something minutes pass, it’s over.

Until next week, Lawrence…

Until next week, Magnum…

Of course, now I stream Magnum.

I can watch all I want.

And as mentioned before, it’s pleasant sun-soaked private-eyeing in a world I briefly called home, Hawaii.

A far cry from today’s familial dystopias that incessantly unfurl, earning the coveted viewer’s endorsement of “addictive.” 

Never mind that after each episode, which is followed by (you guessed it) another episode, one feels haggard, and maybe even a little more suspicious of fellow man- and woman.

Such a hypothetical show could be called “Family”. The teaser swims in primary colors as they sweep across the faces of an apparently happy family. 

But no. 

It’s worse. In fact, it’s really bad and creatively violent. It’s a predictably complex cannibalism that spirals - and spirals. The last smile you see here is that of a predator.

Cinematic?

Yes.

Well-crafted? 

I suppose so.

But innumerable in streaming services and on the big screen - and equally exhausting.

And, I suppose, eagerly consumed. 

Give me Magnum.

Likewise Leave it to Beaver.

Cheers.

Seinfeld.

The Office.

Maybe even Taxi…

More than ever, I like levity.

I miss John Candy.

I miss T.C.

And I wonder if the pop-cultural immersion in the great gray bleak is imposed or voluntary.

And I wonder if it’s good for the mind and soul.

I’ll keep my Magnum P.I.

A nominal comfort in an oft-comfortless world.

But comfort nonetheless.

I’ll accept the reprieve.

I’ll take all the happy I can get.