Mind-Palace

Because I have problems with the focus and foresight and basic instinct for personal preservation that would allow for efficient (or even existent) life-planning, I definitely would not have ended up with one degree in history, let alone two. Twenty years on, they have proven surprisingly more useful than I would have/could have possibly projected, but that's only because I fell ass-backward into a job in archives. Note this is after eight-plus years where the best use of my time and skills was to be out of the workforce entirely. It turns out that if you live in Southern California, in order to cover the child-care costs of three children, you need way more earning potential than six to eight months unpaid internship editing copy at a newspaper or changing out coffee filters at a marketing company before they deign to pay you. But it's probably for the best as by 2021, neither one of those industries exist in any kind of practical way anymore anyway. Sometimes being unfocused and idle is the same thing as patience.

The fact is I did end up with two degrees in history, so I know better than to rely on a television program to teach me about stuff that happened and the people what did the stuff. Television programs are here to entertain us. Or, if it's on CBS, to gently hold the hands of our elderly citizens as they march lightly toward death. If you'd ever wonder what the value of all those NCIS were, it's to speed Pop-Pop to his rest.

I've already written a little bit here and there about The Crown on Netflix. I know it's not a documentary. I know it. I know it. I assure myself, I know it. It's professional actors speaking dialogue written for situations for which none could have been far enough inside even to remark upon, let alone report with any kind of fidelity 50-60 years later. But gosh it's hard not to lend it all the benefit-of-the-doubt I can conjur when we watch the main themes of institution-over-humans played out in public over the course of years, culminating to yet another crescendo this week with the blockbuster Oprah interview of former basic cable star Meghan Markle and her husband, some kind of Army washout.

Please note that despite my attempts to be dismissively funny about it, this is not an I'm-too-cool-for-this-kind-of-content blog post. Those are common as anything and if there's anything royalty teaches us to disdain, it's things that are common. I'm actually kind of fascinated by royals, as many Americans are. I'm definitely not in the buy-a-commemorative-tea-towel set, but I honestly can't wrap my head around the idea of being born in to a public relations job of a globally recognizable brand, to the point that your conception comes with a breathlessly reported press release. And then one of the first things you publicly learn is how to shake hands with strangers in a crowd who waited all day to get a glimpse of you and who are super invested in all the aspects of your life when you're, like, five. The question isn't "why do these people seem so fucked up?" for me, it's definitely more along the lines of "it's a miracle not one of these lunatics have snapped and shot up a Pret-a-Manger already?"

It shouldn't be any surprise that the two main points of the Oprah interview were a) we were in this and we're not OK, emotionally and mentally, and b) given the choice between continuation of the institution and the wellbeing of the humans involved, stack another broken psyche on the fire, we have a lot of rooms in these giant old houses to keep warm. People come and go, but tourist visits are forever.

Plenty of people wondered why the Palace should be so shufty* about one of the disposable ones wanting to move to a quiet place where they can be neighbors with Gwyneth Paltrow's fourth home. But I watch The Crown and read news stuff, so I can already tell you: you aren't allowed to leave. The patriotic thing to do is to hang around until they can throw you out like garbage. And only rarely when you deserve it.

Harry got to live through his mother being driven literally to her death by the spectre of celebrity culture that comes with the job of being married to some guy. And then you find out your pregnant wife has a bit of suicidal ideation? I couldn't have gotten farther away faster. It seems reasonable! But these are people who still roll around in ermine capes sometimes. It would almost be weird to expect them to suddenly manifest even a late-20th-century perspective, let alone a current one. But oh my god, they're just like those assholes on the show!

And Harry's not even going to inherit anything! He's the extra one in case his older brother went all Albert Victor on everyone before he had the decency to procreate. But procreate he has, so my dude: run and be free, right?

Nah, instead you have people on TV getting so mad about it, they lose their fucking jobs. I'd like to have more outraged opinions about it either way, but when at this point you've been locked up in your house for 12 months and you're only in it for the memes, eh, this'll do.

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*pretend word meaning "grumpy" that should be an English expression, but isn't