Sunday, June 26, 2005


– Sometimes I wonder if people who think TV is utterly ridiculous, idiotic trash that turns viewers into lobotomized zombies are aware that they’re making the same sort of argument that was being made about novel reading 150 years ago. What do you think?
– Do you remember that TV show about the girl who could stop time by pressing the tips of her index fingers together? There was one episode where she started to take advantage of her power and kept freezing time in order to get done with her homework before all the other kids. I think this would be a really great superpower to have, although using it to do homework seems pretty lame, if you ask me.

– There are many reasons to have a crush on Jason Bateman’s character in Arrested Development, but the most obvious is his unwavering loyalty to his bicycle. That show needs to slip into a new time slot so that I may view it once again.

Ah... Tonight, tonight is a very different kind of usual night. Tonight feels strange to me. Somewhat novel to my system. I feel as though maybe I had just moved to Berkeley. Or that I am still only visiting. When will I come to call this home?

When I was younger I used to try to imagine myself all grown up but I never could, the face and body and future were always blurry and would come in and out of focus, like a photograph trying to decide if it wanted to be developed.
Eventually I became a bit worried that this psychic failure might mean something, that it was a bad omen, that I was going to be the victim of a gruesome and improbable accident like an Edward Gorey character and then never make it to grownuphood. When you’re a kid the number of ways to die seems infinite, and I imagined the airplanes we always heard overhead crashing into the house or the ceiling fan in my bedroom coming unhinged, taking flight and chopping me to bits during the night.

I suppose it is somewhat reassuring to now know that my inability to picture some other, older version of myself wasn’t because I wouldn’t exist so much as it was a mysterious case of a simultaneous lack of and overactive imagination.

Feeling anxious or guilty or mismatched because you are not sad or upset or regretful about something you had expected to feel those things about is maybe one of the silliest things in the whole world.

But oh. I wouldn’t put it past me.