I've decided to emerge from my cocoon of comfort-binging 90s sci-fi television to bring you an important newsflash: the past is LARGE, and it is heaving with a plethora of means by which you can drift off into a mental holodeck of entertainment that will very nearly banish all thoughts of how the world outside is burning, if only for 45 minutes at a stretch. But don't forget EVER that the world is, in fact, burning, drowning, freezing, blowing away, getting impeached, etc. If you didn't cry a little at Greta Thunberg's pleas to the UN this week, congratulations, you're dead inside.
But there's more to life than re-discovering new favorite oldies on Netflix and Prime. There are podcasts and blogs and food and drinks to be consumed, and I'm laying them out on a threadbare paisley pashmina on a Bedford sidewalk outside of Spoonbill and Sugartown for your latent-hipster-turned-breeder perusal.
Children, fellow kids... I was there, courtside, for the televisual phenomenon that was Friends. I saw and felt and mindlessly regurgitated all the goings-on and dumb Phoebe quotes a middle-schooler was capable of regurgitating. And that's the only feeling this show elicits within me today: involuntary dry heaves. It's not worth getting all nostalgic about. I don't know if the VSCO girls are responsible for this, but I'm blaming them because it's easier than grasping for the metal straw to my Campari and soda right now.
It's a mercy that The X-Files obsession ultimately eclipsed Friends in my mind and heart and preserved my soul. Because, really, there still isn't much on TV right now quite as awesome as 90s sci-fi. SeaQuest, the re-booted Outer Limits, Star Trek: TNG, I mean COME ON. That shit is TIGHT. And it's all on Prime, so get on that.
I thought I had to watch Carnival Row, because, well, it has Legolas in it. I'm way past denying he's still a treat to stare at despite his limited acting talents, and you know, fauns and fairies and gritty steampunk shit can be fun (right? am I over that shit, though? maybe I am). But dude, as soon as Netflix's ultra-ambitious and long-anticipated Jim Henson project dropped I had less interest in Carnival Row than a Rooms-to-Go sofa. Puppets acting out a slightly more family-friendly Game of Thrones-esque plot based on the classic original film minus any live actors whatsoever? Sorry/not sorry, Orlando. The puppets are better.
Speaking of the late GOT: What the actual fuck was that? The writers took a massive dump at the end there. They should have either written Dany to be the actual nice lady queen she started as or they should have leaned way into her unstoppable rule like every other man before her, because that would have been true equal-opportunity absolute power. No, nice-guy Jon Snow had to murder her so that Bran could gamer-gate the whole situation. Whatever. At least we got Jason Momoa out of all this.
There's nothing like celebrating the non-change in Floridian seasons like spending the eve of Mabon with your girlfriend drinking spiked spiced cider, nibbling on banana bread, and watching Hocus Pocus. Apples are also great for giving you good luck on Rosh Hashanah, yo. So much more holy than the old odd gourd. Shana tova!
Living in a nice big ol' house all by your lonesome has its perks (not having to share BOGO Talenti with anyone) and cons (feeling white privilege shame for being one of the few millenials with a nice big ol' house to yourself). But at least once a week, you have a load of juicy podcasts you haven't been able to squeeze in during your daily commutes PLUS a whole lotta grunt work to keep you and your home from degrading into anything but what Bobby Berk would consider adorable and livable. So, you're presented with sitting down to working on your old novel or updating your old blog OR popping on your headphones for a few eps of 99% Invisible, The 1A, or Ologies while vacuuming and mopping and doing laundry for an entire Saturday morning. And OMG the latest obsession is Radiotopia's serial drama Passenger List. It's a beautifully produced "ripped-from-the-headlines" tale of intrigue about how/why a plane crashed. While I am genuinely sucked in now, I was only originally interested because Colin Morgan (MERLIN!) is in there somewhere. I'm fairly sure he's "Dylan," the mysterious voice on the phone being filtered through a scrambler, which sucks because I'd love to just listen to the ACTUAL mellifluous sounds emanating from my crush's mouth. Now I keep getting urges to re-watch Humans on the BBC. And that's fine.
HNNNNGGGG he is so delicious. I would marry his face.
Speaking of chores, though: I finally treated my damn self to a Roomba. I sold my old car (long story) for some sweet cash recently. Also, I've had 80s-style swaths of wall-to-wall carpet for five years now (and I'm not knocking it; I love the freedom to do cartwheels without getting crumbs stuck to my feet or hands) and three birds to fuck it up everyday, so enough was enough. The iRobot app developers thought it would be cute to give me an opportunity to name it, so, naturally, it is dubbed "Data." The first time I said "Computer, tell Data to start cleaning" and the magic beeps and whirs of an autonomous robot filled my house, I was in nerd heaven. Best money ever spent.
Now back to my regularly scheduled Sunday reading of Nat Geos and Harper's. Hopefully, I'll stick to a weekly blogging habit for a while. Who knows?!