tales from tvland

which is not a land I've been very tolerant of lately, mostly because I'm certain that except for a few guilty (yes guilty) but defensible pleasures, my brain gets mushier and number by the pixelated minute. everyone knows this, but a year-long depression has the occasional effect of making one more intimate with primetime than they ever really expected or wanted to be. one feels less alone with bright colors animated in the corner, and so now that said depression has abated, I've taken to reading (etc.) with the television on mute. this morning I had drinking coffee on the couch with yesterday's nytimes book review (a good one; a good paper this week actually, what with milosevic and louise gluck and zizek) and was feeling particularly, self-consciously and noticeably contented when I looked up at my muted colorbox and saw two men in suspenders, hammerpants, and tophats passing a barrel between them, balancing it on their faces, and suddenly mute just didn't seem good enough, and the colorbox lost its color. that is, it went off.

still, lest I get all militant about it, I should say that this past weekend, pbs was rerunning julia child's old french chef tv show, which was just a pleasure to watch (out-loud laughing pleasure), even if just for a few minutes while I was making breakfast. she looked so desperately uncomfortable, as did the camera -- maneuvers that we (until recently) could see on the ruckeyser business show where the man walks in to the set from the corner, as if coming in from off stage. so awkward and adorable.

so there's the good to redeem the bad. so much the way.