I'm in my Fred Flintstone era
The stress of multitasking is a prehistoric problem
When demands on my time breathe hot down my neck, I picture a burly neanderthal dressed in orange. Allow me to explain the Fred Flintstone Threshold, a name I just came up with for a recurring experience I just now identified.
See, I love a to-do list. I’ve tried to get by doing the bare minimum, but having little tasks is my equilibrium. (The rest of this issue will not be written in rhyme.) Call it capitalist brainwashing; call it a pathological need to be a good boy because Jesus said so. The origins are immaterial. As I told my therapist last week, I feel less anxious when I have a full slate of easily executed jobs.
Until I hit the Fred Flintstone Threshold. See, when I feel overwhelmed by a swirling miasma of responsibility, my mind goes to Bedrock. I’ll set the scene: South Austin, anywhere from 1993 to 1999. The TV channel: Cartoon Network. The child: me. I have this vivid memory of sitting on my family’s matted, camel-colored carpet and watching an episode of “The Flintstones” titled “Fred Strikes Out.” (You can watch it for free on Tubi, which is the best thing technology has done for me all year.)
The plot’s a classic of the form. Fred ends up double-booked when he promises Wilma an anniversary date at the drive-in theater (the industrial applications of rocks in this show never cease to amaze me) on the same night as the Water Buffalo Lodge bowling championship. America’s favorite prehistoric lout spends the episode trying to be in two places at once. He runs back and forth, cartoon legs spinning like egg beaters, until the surreptitious switcheroo catches up with him.
You can find endless examples of this plot in other media. “The Jetsons,” which is just “The Flintstones” with a subscription to the Sharper Image catalog, did a version of it. Archie’s always getting into this mess with Betty and Veronica. Zack Morris obviously ran into a double-booking dilemma on “Saved by the Bell.” You can find further iterations in “Mrs. Doubtfire,” “Hannah Montana,” “Frasier” … I could go on.
It fascinates me when my mind picks a single touchstone from a ceaseless stream of pop culture. For some reason, this 1962 episode of “The Flintstones” is seared deeper into the folds of my brain than the names of my great-grandparents. I suppose that it was one of the earliest images I saw of getting pulled in multiple directions at once, and the panic that creates. When I feel the pang of overwhelm, I always think of “Fred Strikes Out.” I am Pavlov’s dinosaur.
I’ve never had to perform wacky hijinks to attend two events at once, but I still feel Fred’s pain. To be overcommitted is to be set up for failure. If I could, I’d follow Hanna-Barbera logic, break the time-space barrier, and get it all done. My ingrained empathy for Fred Flintstone makes me curious: What other feelings do I associate with old episodes of cartoons, or movie scenes, or comic book panels?
“When I feel the pang of overwhelm, I always think of ‘Fred Strikes Out.’ I am Pavlov’s dinosaur.”
I bring all this up because, well, it happened recently. Adjusting from the meat grinder of a daily newspaper to the feast-famine rhythm of freelance work has been rocky. Estrangement from my family started taking its toll in new ways last year, too. Since the fall, I’ve dealt with more anxiety than ever before, even hitting the “gotta go get a Klonopin prescription” level.
Like I mentioned, a little productive distraction goes a long way. I’m trying hard not to put a value judgement on that. It’s the reality, and I want to work with it.
So, somebody decided to become the Icarus of little tasks this month. I worked all through the past weekend. Deadlines to meet, films to screen, birthday cakes to bake. There’s just not enough dabba-doo time in the world. Some people feel like they’re underwater in these situations, or imagine they’re herding cats. As I stared at my carefully blocked-out productivity schedule and reckoned with my utter failure to fulfill it, I heard a faint cry of “Wilma!” in the wind.
With apologies to Paul McCartney, I think this will always be true: When I find myself in times of trouble, Freddy Flintstone comes to me.
One rad thing
Before you leave the house, always check to make sure you have these things: wallet, keys, phone, and about a dozen YouTube videos to show people when it gets late at a party. One of the crown jewels of my video vault is “Justified & Ancient (Stand by the JAMs)” by The KLF feat. Tammy Wynette.
American Songwriter recently published a history of this unlikely collaboration between a couple of electronic music pranksters and the queen of country. I was 2 years old when the song came out, and I can assure you that my home did not thump with the sounds of British house jams. Or country music, to be honest. But man, oh man, how I have come to love this batshit slice of pop history that somehow hit No. 11 on the Billboard Hot 100. “Stand by Your Man” only went to No. 19!
The song, while infectious and insane, really needs the music video for full effect. There are tribal costumes, a mystical temple, subliminal messages, illuminati iconography, and Wynette wearing a crown that I hope she got to take home to Nashville. She absolutely sells the fuck out of unhinged lyrics about Mu Mu Land and ice cream vans.
May we all be as game for life’s curveballs as Tammy Wynette.
Outbound messages
Awards for movies and TV shows don’t mean anything. Also: They mean everything to me. For Backstage, I picked out possible Emmy night upsets — “lesser-known long shots, long-snubbed legends, and gosh-darn one-of-a-kind performers” — who would shake up the ceremony on Sept. 15. Matt Berry, my beloved, we’re going to get you a trophy soon.
…
My favorite thing I’ve read this week might typecast Turning Out as a source for the latest celebrity animal obituaries. (Remember that gay penguin?) However, I could not sleep if I didn’t honor Hvaldimir, a “beloved whale believed to have escaped a past life as a Russian spy,” according to NPR.
Hvaldimir passed away under “unnatural circumstances.” My guy died as he lived: cloaked under the cover of sinister secrets.
“Theories about his mysterious past sparked headlines and intrigue, but it was his friendly demeanor that won him scores of admirers in the years that followed,” Rachel Treisman wrote about the whale, but you could also say that about me.