I’m sinking ever deeper into my television frenzy. These recent weeks have been Homeland with the intermittent episode of House, because I like to keep things fresh. I also apparently enjoy television shows featuring british actors portraying americans. Something about the tenor of their voices, I suppose. That plus the fact they’re amazingly talented.
I’ve also thrown The Hour into the rotation, perhaps a subconscious decision on my part to pay homage to the english actors I so enjoy on my american programs, though none of the folks featured in this show appear in either of the other shows (flawed logic, I know). This show also indulges my obsession with all things mid-twentieth century, particularly the smart mode of dress and everyone’s blatant dismissal of smoking as anything but cool.¹ If that’s not enough, the story itself is full of spy plots and cold war intrigue.
So, I have to come clean about a serious issue in my life: I am completely fanatical about television shows. Now it’s a bit of a strange thing, since I don’t watch television, to be obsessed with shows, but with the internet and Netflix and all that it’s simply easier to watch lots and lots of shows. And the best part is that you don’t have to suffer through nearly half an hour of commercials for every hour-long episode block (in Math, this means you’re watching pretty much the same amount of commercial as you are actual show).
Lately (this past weekend) I stumbled across a show called Smash, an NBC concoction about the creation of a new Broadway musical. I have to be honest and say it isn’t the best show ever created, but for the small part of me that loves musical theater and romantic fluff it’s like pure grain alcohol. You really only need a sip of it to be satisfied, but the more you drink the more vivid everything around you becomes, and you can’t stop. Then you go blind, or just make very poor decisions like drink more. Or draw embarrassing fanart. No one wins.
On the other hand, watching a show that’s currently airing on television does nurture a sense of camaraderie with my fellow tv-goers whom I’ve never met. Makes me feel less bad for being so anti-social because somewhere out there I have people who understand me and potentially share my madness.
Well, I guess this blog needs a little dusting off. I left it for greener pastures when I trotted off to Japan for 8 months, so prompting the creation of a new blog (link can be found in previous post) to record down to the tiniest detail my adventures overseas. However, as is often the case, and quite apparent from a cursory look at the pattern of this blog’s archives, I am a poor excuse of a conscientious writer. At any rate, this summer has felt quite different from previous ones, which is likely a direct result of having been in a place that I absolutely loved and wasn’t too keen on leaving, so my homecoming has been lackluster and dull at best. My brain still seems to be trying to sort things in ways that make sense, but generally my head is full of half-thoughts of english and japanese.
If there is a single aspect of this summer worth noting, it is as my summer of True Blood. I have been watching this show fanatically, without pause, for the past few weeks, and have managed to get myself so raveled up in this fictitious tale that every second thought is somehow related to the show. To be unequivocally clear, I am really smitten with the character Eric Northman as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgård. Ho boy, does that vampire have a compelling physique. And his story is pretty interesting too. Apologies to Edward Cullen, but he and all the rest of the Twilight vampires really seem like a bunch of sissy-willows. I mean even the more emotionally prone Bill Compton still maintains extreme levels of badassery when pushed to his limits.
Oh, I also saw Super 8 today with my brother. It was a great little story, I thought. Definitely got my full $5’s worth of entertainment value. Plus, there was a really great preview for Rise of the Planet of the Apes, which I inadvertently called when I whispered to my brother that the whole thing felt like Planet of the Apes mere seconds before the film title flashed up at the preview’s conclusion. I won’t lie, I felt very cool. But yeah, Super 8 was, well, great. I have also decided that anything set in the 1970s and involving aliens is destined to receive Steven Spielberg’s approval. If I were anything of a mathematician it might be kind of fun to come up with some function that describes this behavior, but as I am an idiot with numbers and equations I’ll stick to my meager arsenal of words.
One more thing: nostalgia is the arbiter of apathetic individuals’ decisions.
And sleeplessness is the reason behind every vaguely philosophical utterance of the adolescent mouth.