Monday, October 2, 2006

Work has consumed me, rent our delicate schedule into shreds plentiful and silent, but like the 350-pounder at Sizzler I’m unrepentant. Every minute, every tock, every grain through the middle–worth it. This isn’t to say every second has been pleasant, of course, and indeed there have been moments when the simultaneous existence of sunshine and lollipops has been questioned, doubted even. It’s just the time spent has been worthwhile.

There’s a lot to discuss: the curious intersection between work and religion. The road culture. A serious deficit in delicious burritos. And, of course, the search for a place where one of the weekend hotspots isn’t Walmart. But for now, Youtube needs to be addressed.

The online service has become a kind of provisional television, and it will continue in this capacity until I purchase cable and a TV. Grey’s Anatomy, for instance, is an urgent topic every Thursday, and Youtube is a willing accomplice with its steady stream of illicitly procured episodes from the running season.

The crux of tonight’s talk, in case you’re taking notes, is what the hell compels people to set video montages of Ellen Pompeo and cast against “Seasons of Love.” The Internet is the freest of free marketplaces, don’t get me wrong, but when I visit Youtube I expect the user experience to turn it into Metube real quick-like. Yeah, I’m glad you were able to publish your first latchkey masterwork, a subtle weave of Season 2 highlights with Snow Patrol blaring in the background, and on an unrelated note get me a goddamn search filter.

These are the same people, I imagine, who ardently produce fanfiction, those apocryphal texts usually resulting in Captain Kirk making out with Lord Vader on the holodeck. You understand my frustration, I’m sure. In the real world, if you were looking for Star Wars bootlegs and the guy popped the trunk, you wouldn’t find a rabid fan dressed like Chewbacca jumping out of it. That would be indecent.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Honeymoon’s over and you still love it? It means you’re home, I believe.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

The last time we met, there was talk about geography and exploration and, implicitly, the potential for our nightly discussions to transform into a bona fide travelogue. You know the type, I’m sure. A string of effortlessly charming anecdotes. Hi-res, glossy photos of expansive vistas. But the most stunning pictures would come from words, piercing verbal vignettes about the local culture and the people who are its engine.

This is one path we decidedly won’t travel, thank goodness, and here’s the reason. I couldn’t even make it “downtown” this weekend, and I’ve been told by colleagues and strangers alike my intended destination is expensive and overrated. Whether this is true or not, I can’t really say, because I was sidetracked by this on the way.

Southpark Mall has been hailed, or so I’ve gathered, as a kind of spectacle. I needed to find out why. What I discovered, after watching my gas needle drop in real-time, is it should be called Can’tpark Mall. Round and round I circled, up and down various parking garages, only to join the throng of pilgrims in the inexorable push to find the same damn vendors present in every mall. I expected to find storefronts capable of shopping themselves, and instead I left vowing to never return.

We’ve arrived, then, at the destination we know best. Complaining. I fully intend to make it downtown this weekend or the next, but for now this is your travelogue. This is your Canterbury Tales, and I’m your Chaucer. You want to hear about the Wife of Bath? More like the Wife of Shut Up.