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Idiot Box 
My week of television, just one little week, has wrecked me. Luckily, I'm still just this side of Macy Gray in the sane department, so I can recognize the signs. I'm starting to confuse my life with the subplots on "Friends" ("Remember that time your girlfriend wouldn't leave you alone so you pretended to move to Yemen?"). My grasp on reality, which wasn't all that firm to begin with, is weakening. T.V. dishes up big ol' steamin' platefuls of unreasonable expectations and I just can not resist digging in. Now, as I'm going through a hard time, maybe walking down a foggy street reflecting on my painful past-- yet dreaming about a hopeful future-- I not only want to, but kind of expect to, hear a soulful, "Felicity"-style folk tune playing softly in the background. Really, that's all I ask, just a little acoustic guitar action, maybe a broken-hearted young singer choking out some notes. It seems so useless otherwise, all the wasted emotion without a fitting and contemporary hit single to accompany it. Here I am: young, reasonably attractive, rocking out a colorful, fashionable scarf that looks like it might be from the Gap, and having a poignant moment. I'm well lit. My brow is furrowed. I have inner demons and yet I manage to retain a plucky sense of survival. All I can think is, "Paula Cole, where are you?" So, for the rest of my time here, though I'm dangerously and temptingly close to the television, my cruel mistress, I'm swearing off. I'm not watching another rerun, another special, another anything starring Loni Anderson. I will not click on the T.V., getting all excited, only to realize that the tousled blond I spotted was actually not Ellen DeGeneres, but David Spade. I'm going to spend my time chasing life, living every moment, even and especially the difficult ones. But could somebody tape "The View" for me? Previous | END
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