Happy Birthday, David Lynch

This was a year without ironing bunnies. No, Jingle Dell didn't have fun with cockroaches and make his lunch -- twenty sandwiches high. No one had a nervous breakdown and won the civil war for the South -- all in the privacy of his hotel room. No ears were found on shortcuts. No worms were strung from noses. There was no death by coffee table. No arguments over grabbers. No random Australian actress' career was launched by a dreamscape. And no, that gum you like did not come back in style.

Instead, Mr. Lynch has become the grand-pappy of Transcendental Meditation -- partying with the likes of Russel Brand and showing all Americans, even David Byrne, that his hair still reigneth proud.

Being a Lynch lover is tough. The current gap between feature films seems endless. As much as it always seems to prove worth it, in the words of Mr. Petty, "the waiting is the hardest part."

At the moment, Mr. Lynch seems more the weirdo emeritus than king of the surreal -- though slipping on the crown is purely his choice. How would there be a Black Swan without you? And would Winter's Bone suffered if Daddy weren't just behind the destruction of a meth-lab, but somehow blasted his soul into another dwarf filled dimension? Of course not. I'd run that movie on a loop.

However, on his birthday, I must credit this director -- who has meant more to my psyche than most things I've encountered in my life -- with the dawn of long form cable (and the occasional daring network) television series. Where would any show on FX, AMC, HBO, or Showtime be without "Twin Peaks." One girl, one murder, one nutty band of characters. To feel the true impact, picture the situation reversed. Imagine "Twin Peaks" in a post "Lost" world. Imagine "Twin Peaks" in a post "True Blood" world. Imagine "Twin Peaks" after "Damages," "Dexter," "Carnivale." Obviously that "Twin Peaks" would have been the greatest media event the world had ever witnessed. This would be a land be a place where its series finale would be the grandest of all and we wouldn't have to endure endless references to -- oh, I don't know... MASH?! Thus it's clear none of these series could have endured without the artistic risk and foresight of David Lynch 20 years ago.

I, for one, thank you. I wish you a happy birthday. And considering this is supposed to be an awards season blog that converts into a film review site -- I await your next feature and your eventual Oscar.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I need a damn fine cup of coffee.

- Matthew J. McCue