A media diet, here defined, is the temporary exchange of overwrought entertainment for lighter fare, and it’s something I’ve faithfully kept since last I mentioned it, which is far more than I can say for my health regimen. Bacon double cheeseburger with the works, pound-and-a-half of fries, all the peanuts you could possibly unshell and eat? It’s a sublime feeling best described by the French as “like a pig in shit.” That’s High French, by the way, and it’s unavailable in traditional curricula.
At some point during 300–most likely during an expensively shot yet horrible scene, but that doesn’t really triangulate things–I felt very tired. It’s a fatigue years in the making, borne from an endless goulash of Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and various superhero movies. There’s a threshold where, once crossed, your cerebrum must stop bingeing or risk explosion. If I need an action fix these days, it’s got to have that spare aesthetic, so something like The Bourne Identity or Children of Men. Here’s a rule of thumb: if your media doesn’t blare a seven-part choral arrangement whenever some guy swings a sword, swings and misses, you’re probably safe.
The appetite for TV shows, however, continues unbroken. Heroes is the current squeeze, and much of the appeal rides on the pacing. It’s certainly not the special effects because, as it turns out, you actually don’t get points for trying. The fact that the writers plotted the arc for the long haul is encouraging. Those ABC shows I once considered staples were apparently written for a single season, after which the programming quickly became planes without a pilot. Even if Heroes doesn’t work out, though, there are alternatives on queue. House. Bones. And other single-worded dramas ready to round out a full media portfolio. I’m diversifying.
It’s an architectural imperative that one of the doors in a Jack and Jill bathroom will always fail to shut completely, instead demanding ample slamming to complete its trajectory. There’s some kind of metaphor here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to coax it out, so let’s settle on the underlying emotion: aggravation. Time is at a premium these days, which in itself isn’t the problem. It’s when you set the crunch against the backdrop–a southern existence lined with good weather–that makes you wonder whether the deficit is artificial, caused perhaps by priorities in need of recalibration.
The townhouse, I’ve come to realize, is a kind of assisted living environment, a hamster cage cleverly designed to ensnare those who quail at the prospect of lawn care or exterior upkeep. At this point? It’s precisely what I need. And lest I go too soft, there’s enough wildlife to rough it, at least to the extent I can rough it a mile-and-a-half away from a corporate park. We’re talking gold-backed spiders, flying insects the size of small bats, and beasts that bark at the moon. They just sound different, you know? Rawer. My guess is wild dogs, but maybe, just maybe, these are coyotes, so goes the secret hope.
You go into the process thinking you’re prepared–commute perfectly plotted, location picked to appreciate, floors and counters made out of this material–but there’s always more to learn, especially for a first-time homebuyer. A trustworthy realtor is essential, because someone needs to translate your likes and dislikes into something on the market. It’s a rich experience, and when you clack out this exact sentence in a computer nook that echoes just so, well, that’s that.
Two days until closing, until notarized geographical commitment, and the excitement is barely palpable, like a blip on a heart monitor in a morgue in an underground base buried deep within the firmament. Come Friday morning, I’m told, there will be a sheaf of papers about yea thick to sign, “yea” being the functional synonym for metric shitload. It should be seamless, though.
I plan on plowing through, favorite ballpoint in hand, armed with the knowledge that an hour of chronic autographing will yield some permanence, finally, and a departure from the carnival of cockroaches, nutjob neighbors, and shystery landlords that has been my moldus operandi, if you will, and–as we’ve previously established–you will.
There’s a computer nook in the new place, a cozy spot from which I suspect we will dialogue with greater frequency, sloth permitting, and with any luck the Information Superhighway shall be accessible next week. I’ve been trying a media diet lately, and initial results have been worthwhile. Understand this is a media diet, not a food diet, because in that capacity my last few dinners have consisted almost entirely of chips. The secret to a good plate of nachos? Lime juice.