February 2012

I’m going to admit something that, these days, is unfashionable.

I watch television.

I watch it, I like it, I have cable, and not just for the History channel or BBC World News.

I like to watch trashy reality shows on VH1. I like cooking shows. I could probably give you a detailed list of every Food Network personality. I like stupid shows aimed at women like all those ridiculous makeover shows that I know, intellectually, are dumb and condescending, but no one’s watching me in my little studio apartment, so what the hell.

Anytime a group of 20-30 year olds get together, someone, at some point in time will declare, proudly, how little television they watch:

“I haven’t even turned *on* my TV in weeks!”

“Oooh, you have cable…wow”

“I haven’t had a TV since I was a freshman!”

“Sorry, you know, I really don’t keep up with that stuff anymore. I didn’t watch that. In fact, I never watch TV.”

I don’t know how much more of this self-important tripe I can take. Why don’t people just say what they mean? Because when I hear shit like that, I know what people are really saying is, ‘I am above popular culture, and therefore superior to you. Also, my time is so massively important that the world would come to a screaching halt if I sat down to enjoy a soccer game or an episode of Good Eats.’

Television is no better or worse for your brain than reading or looking at photographs or paintings or absorbing any other kind of media. The whole ‘TV rots your brain’ myth has come about because it’s the most ubiquitous form of entertainment, and fun and leisure makes puritanical Americans nervous, even though they crave it more than anyone. If you read novels written before the 1940s or so, you’ll see characters saying the same things to their children about reading novels.

I’m not saying that my morbid fascination with Breaking Bonaduce is admirable or a sign of great intellectual rigor on my part, and there’s nothing wrong with not liking television or not being able to afford one or whatever, but don’t act like you’re above it. The box is also a mirror, and frankly I think it’s irresponsible not to look into it once in awhile, even if you don’t always like what you see.

P.S. I am a copy editor.

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Dear Diary:

I am finding myself increasingly politically isolated, especially within the American socio-political climate.

As a devout believer of Marxist-Leninism (though my desire to break off the oft imposing relations with the Soviets in the late 1950′s led some to believe otherwise), I am in a particular bind of late. Should I support the left movement in the United States, which often is a disparate conglomoration of ineffective organizations that are subtly pursuing their own agenda, or become apolitical and therefore compalcent to a defunct system of inequity?

Sigh, I just wish the forces of progress could unite under one message instead of feeling crushed by the stupidity of my peers and the immorality of my enemies.

I am constantly fighting uphill battles, internally and externally. Today I got stuck on the wheel and Lisa had to rescue me. Dignity escapes me as I age.

Until tommorow, forever and on,

Mao

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night 1

consumed too much; went to clarendon

old friends are old burdens

woke up in a daze covered by a thin blanket; drove home

1 hour of traffic on saturday morning; melted away an afternoon

phone tag, complicated plans; walked a few miles

night 2

ate delicious mexican; increased alcohol consumption

became belligerent; yelled screamed and stomped

helped kim up; helped kim down

yelled at passer-by’s; some alec offers: 5 dollar condomless orgy, guy-only spin the bottle

fell asleep filthy and drunk; woke up the same way

ate a delicious bagel; wonder what ive done to myself

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An employee in a crowded office who already spent most of the morning talking on the phone, referring to her son:

‘What a sorry ass motha fucker’

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Dearest Diary,

Today was both exhilirating and awful. The one they call ‘Lisa’ (the oppressor of my world, transformed from a pet store into a small, tragic wheel inside a translucent prison) brought home a gaggle of amateur filmmakers.

Little did I know that I was to star in a short entitled ‘Don’t kill him… smooch him’. I play the role of protagonist but have little on camera action. It was oh so wonderful to be the center of attention, I felt like the ugly duckling turned into a prom queen!

However, as the title suggests, the film encompassed a violent aura. Two of the bloodthirsty filmmakers desired my pretty, noble head to be guillotined after a brief trial from the sans-cullotes.

Luckily, a boy named Matt who was infatuated with my looks insisted on kissing me. I did enjoy this affection, but he repeatedly called me the wrong name (Melanie, and then Hamsty) during our love romp.

This leads to my continual regret over a recent sordid love affair I had with Gerbsties, our Arab next door neighbors gerbil. Our love was passionate but brief. Her heart was full of love but her parents did not approve of our inter-specie romance (I am of Hindi and Indian decent). This tragedy continues to live in my heart, but I will go on.

Yours truly,
Mao

PS. Here is the movie.

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dearest diary, today i got thrown in the air by these crazy boys! i was sooo scared, but i knew there was only love between us. after all, i was looking good (my hair is growing back after the mites incident, lol) and they couldn’t stop snuggling with me. I guess I am a lovable little boy. but… i’m a little embarassed… i mean, i couldn’t help dropping one every now and then… oops. in other words, i got new bedding, which i tore up, like, all day. cotton balls rule! xoxo mao mao whoopee i’m a trapeze artist!

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