Great Expectations–the movie reimagining, may Chuck forgive me–greatly skewed expectations for how apartments should look. Certainly I never expected to land a sprawling one-floor accommodation like the one depicted in the film, but I always thought something with a balcony would be nice. Well, I have a balcony now, along with a pressing need to vacate as soon as possible.
One of my colleagues has painted, in broad and believable strokes drawn from eyewitness experience, the true dark nature of my rental community. Oh, there were telltale threads evident within the first week or two: a lease rider epic in length, too many neighbors wearing wifebeaters, the ever-present specter of hip hop pounding my windows. Understand I’m not an undershirt snob, nor am I academically opposed to ballads about funky fresh ho’s who be dropping the knowledge and shit. Hell, I have them preset to 1 in my car.
Like I said, separate threads. But to have them tied together, then dyed in the rumor that this place is a conduit for drug trafficking, is something else entirely. My lease also apparently autorenews if I don’t give 90-days notice before the end of the contract. The fine print, let me tell you–it’s like living in a sweepstakes I don’t want to win. I will admit, however, I tend to pick out lemons. A string of them, in fact, long enough to justify a second device situated right next to my moral compass. Call it a GPS, short for Ghetto Positioning System. I’ve recalibrated it, given it a thorough shake. It’s telling me to go downtown.
TV on DVD once held me in its siren sway, intoning its appeal in melodies too delicious to ignore, and yet something has changed. The laundry list of perks should be obvious. No commercials. Crisp anamorphic quality. Portability designed to fill my television-shaped void. Honestly, these days it’s more fun–funner, I believe, is the street-sanctioned adjective–to anticipate a season’s imminent release.
I imagine the ABC trifecta is still miles better than most programming out there, in a trashy sea of reality this and reality that. It’s a hard road getting through the second seasons, however, and I expect the world’s smallest violins are poised for the downbeat this precise moment. Really, though, the decline in appeal is secretly pleasing, since it always feels a little grody sitting through episode after episode.
Desperate Housewives, once a guilty pleasure, has become a kind of guilty chore, primarily because the marquee gimmick for this outing–recall the toy chest in the first season–is far less sinister. Grey’s Anatomy continues to maintain its vice-like grip, bless its soul, which may be tacit evidence for writing by committee. But Lost! Oh, my prodigal son.
The structure of the show now annoys, with the sheer frequency of flashbacks grating unreasonably. I don’t know, maybe I should care how Jack picks his nose exactly as his father did, but only half as well as Kate picked Sayid’s nose during the Gulf War in one of those intertwining flashbacks that reveal–ho ho!–these characters are related.
The biggest kick to the teeth was discovering in advance the fate of my favorite new character in a news article, of all places. The actor had gotten a traffic ticket or something, which constituted license enough for the reporter to spoil the season finale. The tenets of entertainment reporting were never fully revealed to me, after I dropped my one journalism class like a misplaced modifier, but it apparently disciplines writers to ruin the fucking magic for people.
Saturday nights are usually invested in stock far less weighty than complex interracial relations at the local Pei Wei, but come to think of it, I haven’t purchased enough delicious lettuce wraps either. I was identified as a “real Asian man,” which was certifiably fortuitous coming from a real Hispanic boy, and I don’t see many of those around these parts.
Now, there was a time when this would’ve fired a minor crusade, rioted upon my holy city of Asian awareness in a dangerous clank, but that time was back around high school or something, maybe on a Wednesday afternoon when I very nearly cared. On this night, I was dismayed by the sheer inaccuracy of it all because–holy shit, incidentally–I’m white. It’s been confirmed.
You’d think for every dozen restaurants there would exist a single gym with a good indoor track, and I’d nod vigorously to your grand ratios. There should be one, wouldn’t you think? Not in this time-space continuum. I don’t want a high-tech elliptical contraption equipped with a Calorimetertator and dried sweat from a thousand woeful souls. A round plot of floor will do just fine. It’s time to look harder.