y name is Robert Engbers.  I am 33 years old (chronologically, at least).  Autobiography has never been my strong suit, so I'll spare the reader an agonizing foray into my life and times—the latter of which are painful enough even without explication.

Although I originally intended to let my interests shed light on who I am and what I have accomplished, I feel compelled to provide a short description in order to refute some of the nasty things the tabloids have been saying about me.

First of all (and for the record) I was not born in a one-room shack in Tupelo, Mississippi.  As I make my way through stacks of fan mail, it seems apparent that the U.S. Postal Service has mistaken me for Elvis Presley, widely considered to be the King of Rock and Roll. Three hundred pounds of postcards and letters now clutter my garage, with more arriving every day.  At first, I tried to respond to each one with a note of explanation, but the task quickly became overwhelming. Now, I simply write “Return to Sender: Address Unknown” on the outside of the envelopes.  I think Elvis would have liked that.

I was actually born in Queens, New York, about a half-mile from the site of the 1964 World’s Fair. When I was young, I explored the buildings that remained after the exposition closed in 1965. Once meant to reflect the breadth and scope of American Life, they were quickly abandoned to time and the elements. I feel certain that exposure to these rusted, creaking ruins contributed to my belief that our society, too, was falling apart from neglect.

As an insomniac, I could not conform to the normal night-time schedule of most children.  Re-runs from the “Golden Age of Television” helped to fill the lonely hours before the sun came up and the world awakened once more.  It was a mixed bag, to be sure: The Twilight Zone, The Life of Riley (I prefered Jackie Gleason to William Bendix), The Channel 11 Film Festival, The Millionaire, The Abbot and Costello Show, The Naked City, Perry Mason, and—my personal favorite—Biography, hosted by Mike Wallace, which came on at 4:15am.  Once in a while, CBS would re-broadcast Edward R. Murrow’s See It Now, possibly television’s finest hour.

Those scratchy images offered a glimpse of the world that existed before I was born.  There it was, alive but unchanging, in the grey kinescopic twilight of the living room. I don’t think I would have grown to love history without them.  It was only television, of course, but great things often spring from humble beginnings.

Around 5:00am, after the blare of national anthems, test-patterns appeared and the networks signed off.

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