Couch Sores Are A Son Of A Bitch
I am finding it increasingly difficult to find anything worthwhile to write online. Maybe it’s because I’ve run out of things to say (not!). Or maybe it’s because the Internet is full of some much noise, I don’t want to add any more nonsense to the cacophony (waa waa I’m not a Sunday afternoon NPR reporter). Or maybe it’s because I don’t really seem to do anything worth writing about these days. Not because I’m bedridden due to a ectopic pregnancy. Not because I am maimed due to the fact that I flipped off a Jamaican couple in a minivan today. Not once. But every time I passed them at a stop light. Which was three times.
Not because I am minorly depressed. Not because I don’t get invited to parties anymore. Not because I just read that David Foster Wallace used to do nothing but watch junk television all of the time, and now I’m secretly trying to emulate him. I read a short story David Foster Wallace wrote in the New Yorker about an office worker one time, and I said to myself, “Who in their right fucking mind would ever romanticize a mindless office job, or even want to read about one? Oh, a stupid fucking intellectual.” And I did not like it, and it did not make me want to be like him. Not because I’m dying of diphtheria.
The reason I have nothing worthwhile to write about online is because these past few weeks, when I’m not working, when I’m not manipulating Caleb into doing housework by saying things like, “don’t you think that we should clean the floors today” and then pretending to be too exhausted because I think I’m getting my period. When I’m not eating junk food, when I’m not indulging in paranoid delusions at people who I thought were my friends who secretly actually hate me, when I’m not obsessing about small children, when I’m not sleeping, I am fucking watch Netflix. A lot of it. All I want to do is lie in my pajamas, while everyone (ahem, Caleb) shuts the fuck up and lets me tear through seasons of “new additions.”
This morning, I tried to let myself sleep late so that I could get some inspiration for stories from my dreams. Let me tell you, it was not hard. I slept until 11am, and I had many strange visions. None of which I can recount to you, because Caleb woke me up by sitting on me, and wrapping me up like a fucking mummy, which he thought was so fucking cute because I was squirming and trying to bite him, thereby preventing me from writing any of them down. By the time I finally did get over to my desk, this is what I wrote:
Dreams
Living in a Bungalow
Horses Bound
What fucking good is that going to be to me when I’m trying to right a sick fucked up post-apocalyptic love story to post on my blog?
No fucking good. So, instead of writing something intelligent or interesting, I’m just going to do a little recap of some of the things that I watched this weekend.
The Sixth Season Of 30 Rock. All Of It.
30 Rock is so funny, right? I hadn’t watched it in so long that the first few episodes of the season, I cried so hard that my make-up ran, and I looked like I had just been legitimately raped in my pajamas on Halloween.
There’s really not a lot to say about it. Liz Lemon watches a lot of TV, I’ll tell you that much. Also, she gives me hope that you can do anti-social things like think about killing people on the subway, put on microwave popcorn while you have sex (so that you have a snack ready when you’re done), and watch every reality show on tv, even the dancing ones, while at the same time being the head writer on a hit television series. One that is not even obese.
The good thing about 30 Rock is that as long as you have basic character sketches, you can watch almost any episode without context. Jenna a psychopath also named my sister Tara. Tracy Jordan is a hilarious black man. Alec Baldwin is the prototypical republican who you would probably fuck, let’s be honest. Tina Fey is a woman with a shriveled up vagina who is very endearing. Kenneth is the great-grandson of a character from Deliverance who is very cheerful. The writers on the show are weirdos who are into fantasy card games.
Now you have all of the information you need to jump right in.
On a closing note, the last episode has a Kim Jong Il impersonator (don’t worry, I didn’t ruin anything). “Where did they get such a good impersonator,” I mused to Caleb.
“He’s probably a writer on the show,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” I asked him. “There’s no way there’s a girls who looks exactly like Kim Jong Il on staff for the show.”
“No, Koreans are all really funny,” he said, very seriously. “I’m very serious.”
Damages, Season 4
The fact that no one talks about Damages leads me to believe that it’s not actually that great of a show. I still like it. Even though I can’t form my own opinions.
It’s kind of like a more intellectual Revenge, charting the lives of the rich and famous as they are destroyed due to their misdeeds. It stars Glenn Close, as the powerhouse lawyer Pattie something, who is just as evil as the men she prosecutes, only…dun dun dun…she’s a woman.
The past few seasons have been about taking down billionaires who shortsold stocks, and screwed their employees, and a government sponsored biochemics company who was poisoning the environment. This season was about an army contracted company who extracts terrorists for the CIA. Like Homeland only not nearly as good. The last three seasons were better, but the good news is that Glenn Close is still very short.
They actually hung the season finale in a manner that makes me excited for the premiere of the fifth season—Rose Byrne, Glenn Close’s protegee, and greatest enemy, still didn’t come out as the victor, but she might next season. This description makes no sense, not unless you have excellent taste like me, and have already watched the entirety of this series. I’m writing this sentence because I wanted to include the word season for a clean fifth time in this paragraph. Here’s to lazy writing!
On other notes, this season also stars John Goodman and four terribly ugly actors as his children, and Chris Messina, who I think I want to sleep with, but I can’t remember why.
Real Housewives of Miami
I’m sick of these plastic bitches already, but I caught up with what they were up to anyway. Night clubs and being on the losing end of infidelity. As always.
666 Park Avenue
This television program is a piece of crap, but it stars John Locke from Lost as the devil, Vanessa Williams, who was my choir teacher in fourth grade, a lot of guys I can’t tell apart, and some really annoying blonde anorexic girl whose hair looks like it’s on a Barbie Doll, and I styled it by licking my fingers.
Basically (I think) it’s about people in New York living completely unrealistic lives who sell their soul to the devil (Locke) in exchange for some great accomplishment—an amazing screenplay, a talent with the violin. Then, the devil, at the end of their contract, kills them by like burying them in walls, crushing them in elevators or sending crows after them, which is clearly some post-post-post-post-post-post-post Hitchcockian shit. Some of you might be saying to yourself, how can something be so many posts, when the original thing isn’t even that far in the past? And I say to you, go read a fucking book.
I’ll probably watch this shit anyway, because I love the devil, I love it when people sell their souls, and I’m pretty sure there are going to be some sex scenes.
Nashville
I don’t know why, but I was pretty pumped up about this show, mostly because—and I hate admitting this—I read that I should be in New York Magazine. EEK. It was ‘aight, but it doesn’t have me foaming at the mouth for the next episode.
Basically it’s about an older country music star (Connie Britton=love) having to make peace with a young country music star (Hayden Panetierre=world’s most sinister midget nice person who’s actually 5’2” but just appears diminutive) so that they can both make a shitload of money.
I actually watched it with my little brother Stuprendan, who very aptly summed it up. “This is just like a reality tv show,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued. Stuprendan is far, far smarter than me or anyone else I know.
“There’s no central plot, and nothing really happens except for conflict between characters,” he said.
“Let’s just wait to see if you get a higher score than me on my SATs,” I told him, to make him feel insecure, and level the playing field. Secretly, I must admit that he came up with a more brilliant analysis of the show in one sentence than I could if I read nothing but fucking Agamben and Jameson for the next three years, and wrote like goddamn…Chuck Klosterman?
Next on my list is Sherlock, the British version, which just released it’s second season on Netflix. But tonight, there’s Boardwalk Empire, Homeland, and Revenge. Life is so, so sweet. With TV.