In one episode of Seinfeld, George is on the verge of career success, which fills him with anxiety and dread. He frets to his therapist, “God would never let me be successful. He’ll kill me first. He’ll never let me be happy.” “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” the therapist says. “I do for the bad things!” George replies.
I feel personally connected to the Minnesota Vikings. Their shortcomings are my shortcomings. When they fail, I feel I have failed, that I have opened myself up personally to the ridicule of the masses. When they win, I feel euphoric joy, but I don’t feel pride, exactly. I don’t think their strengths are my strengths, that their successes are my successes.
When people insult the Vikings, I feel they are insulting me personally. But that doesn’t mean that I consider praise for the Vikings praise for me. George Costanza believes in God only for the bad things. The Vikings are me, but only when they lose.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
On Adulthood
I'm an adult. If I finish off the bag of candy corn, I can just go buy another one. It costs like two dollars. If I want another bag of candy corn, I can get it.
But that candy corn is loaded with sugar and calories. I really shouldn't finish it off: I don't need all the sugar or calories. I think about my health--because I'm an adult.
But that candy corn is loaded with sugar and calories. I really shouldn't finish it off: I don't need all the sugar or calories. I think about my health--because I'm an adult.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
My Watermelon Policy
I'm willing to work hard for my food. I'm willing to devote time and energy to preparing a meal. I'm willing to work hard to earn each bite (as one must with, say, a grapefruit). But once a bite of food goes into my mouth, I should be done working for it. Once it is in my mouth, that is the time to just take pleasure.
So I avoid watermelon, because I don't like having to work out the seeds while the watermelon is in my mouth.
So I avoid watermelon, because I don't like having to work out the seeds while the watermelon is in my mouth.
Friday, October 2, 2009
My Cantaloupe Policy
1. Always buy a cantaloupe when it costs less than a dollar.
2. Never buy cantaloupe on the "buy one, get one free" deal; no matter how much fruit you eat, it's hard to eat two cantaloupe in one week.
3. Always cut the cantaloupe within two days of getting it home.
2. Never buy cantaloupe on the "buy one, get one free" deal; no matter how much fruit you eat, it's hard to eat two cantaloupe in one week.
3. Always cut the cantaloupe within two days of getting it home.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Dexter
a contrapuntal essay (in this case it just means rambling, and I'm saving my focus for things other than reorganizing a blog entry).
Sometimes I think Dexter is a sick parody of a the conventional "cop who plays by his own rules to get the bad guys" show. There are a lot of fictional police officers who are willing to violate rights, break the law, or use violence to get the bad guys (usually with the support of the audience). The first two seasons of Dexter even feature James Doaks, an aggressive, angry, occasionally violent police officer willing to skirt the law for justice. But Dexter Morgan makes sure you're never confused: while he has a "code," he's not interested in justice. He's a psychopath that doesn't feel things and is compelled to kill.
And sometimes I think Dexter is a sick parody of "just war" thinking, of the thinking that seeks military solutions to problems. At the end of season one, Dexter speculates how horrified everybody around him would be if they knew he is a serial killer. But then he fantasizes: maybe they wouldn't be horrified. Dexter uses violence to punish bad people; maybe if people knew what he did, they'd thank him. In his fantasy, he walks past cheering onlookers, thanking him for keeping them safe, as red, white, and blue confetti falls around him.
I don't really see Dexter as a parody. The show does, however, connect the righteous violence that audiences find appealing with a horrifying, psychopathic violence that should repulse an audience.
In season three, Dexter becomes a sick parody of tranquil domesticity. Dexter protects his girlfriend Rita's daughter from a threatening man: he goes to the man's home and kills him. On his way, Rita had called to tell him they were out of milk. As Dexter drags the man's corpse into the man's kitchen, Dexter remembers Rita's call: he checks the man's fridge, and takes that milk to Rita. In the next episode, he can't quite get a marriage proposal right; he finally succeeds when he borrows the words of a deranged killer.
At least since The Sopranos, television is capable of making an audience "root" for a morally disgusting protagonist. Dexter, I think, plays with what it knows the audience must feel: we're compelled to side with a narrator protagonist no matter how awful he may be. When Rita becomes pregnant, Dexter is anxious: he's afraid to commit to fatherhood, since he's afraid the child will be like him, and afraid he'll be a terrible father. Dexter's sister calls him a fool: he'll be a great father, she says. Rita obviously wants Dexter to commit to fatherhood. And we the audience, familiar with such television situations, may generally think Dexter should commit. He's ambivalent, hesitating, not sure. And you know what? He's right. He's the voice of reason. He's a psychopath incapable of most human emotion that is compelled to kill people. He is probably going to hurt Rita's whole family, and he should run away from committing to them. Eventually, of course, he does end up committing to the family. In general, I think Dexter plays with the conventions of the television protagonist and the audience's sympathies. We're asked to feel emotions for Rita and her children, to see some warmth in Dexter's relationship with them. But surely we must know that Rita and the children would be utterly horrified, devastated, permanently damaged, if they knew the truth about Dexter's murderous activities. The whole relationship is something of a facade that, but Dexter is the only one that knows it's a sham, a phony, a farce. We watch (and perhaps care for) a family, we become aware of their emotional lives, and yet we know who Dexter really is, and know the family doesn't know that, and know that they would be crushed beyond words if they did know the truth.
It goes further. "All in the Family," the season three episode when Dexter proposes to Rita, features the theme of role playing. From beginning to the end, Dexter's narration explores the ways he and others act out an expected role. This episode resonates with season one, when Dexter recounts Harry's lessons for "passing" as normal. He's supposed to fake it. He doesn't know real emotions, he can't actually connect with other human beings, so he's supposed to fake it. He's got to play a role. And in the final scene, when Dexter proposes and talks about how sometimes you end up playing "the role of a lifetime," I can't help but wondering if he's expressing a larger ambivalence about domestic life (an ambivalence not limited to psychopaths). Some people may feel like Dexter: that domestic life requires roles, that family expectations demand certain performed behavior, and sometimes that behavior is not authentic. It feels phony, fake. The domestic role is performed.
The show works at all sorts of levels.
Sometimes I think Dexter is a sick parody of a the conventional "cop who plays by his own rules to get the bad guys" show. There are a lot of fictional police officers who are willing to violate rights, break the law, or use violence to get the bad guys (usually with the support of the audience). The first two seasons of Dexter even feature James Doaks, an aggressive, angry, occasionally violent police officer willing to skirt the law for justice. But Dexter Morgan makes sure you're never confused: while he has a "code," he's not interested in justice. He's a psychopath that doesn't feel things and is compelled to kill.
And sometimes I think Dexter is a sick parody of "just war" thinking, of the thinking that seeks military solutions to problems. At the end of season one, Dexter speculates how horrified everybody around him would be if they knew he is a serial killer. But then he fantasizes: maybe they wouldn't be horrified. Dexter uses violence to punish bad people; maybe if people knew what he did, they'd thank him. In his fantasy, he walks past cheering onlookers, thanking him for keeping them safe, as red, white, and blue confetti falls around him.
I don't really see Dexter as a parody. The show does, however, connect the righteous violence that audiences find appealing with a horrifying, psychopathic violence that should repulse an audience.
In season three, Dexter becomes a sick parody of tranquil domesticity. Dexter protects his girlfriend Rita's daughter from a threatening man: he goes to the man's home and kills him. On his way, Rita had called to tell him they were out of milk. As Dexter drags the man's corpse into the man's kitchen, Dexter remembers Rita's call: he checks the man's fridge, and takes that milk to Rita. In the next episode, he can't quite get a marriage proposal right; he finally succeeds when he borrows the words of a deranged killer.
At least since The Sopranos, television is capable of making an audience "root" for a morally disgusting protagonist. Dexter, I think, plays with what it knows the audience must feel: we're compelled to side with a narrator protagonist no matter how awful he may be. When Rita becomes pregnant, Dexter is anxious: he's afraid to commit to fatherhood, since he's afraid the child will be like him, and afraid he'll be a terrible father. Dexter's sister calls him a fool: he'll be a great father, she says. Rita obviously wants Dexter to commit to fatherhood. And we the audience, familiar with such television situations, may generally think Dexter should commit. He's ambivalent, hesitating, not sure. And you know what? He's right. He's the voice of reason. He's a psychopath incapable of most human emotion that is compelled to kill people. He is probably going to hurt Rita's whole family, and he should run away from committing to them. Eventually, of course, he does end up committing to the family. In general, I think Dexter plays with the conventions of the television protagonist and the audience's sympathies. We're asked to feel emotions for Rita and her children, to see some warmth in Dexter's relationship with them. But surely we must know that Rita and the children would be utterly horrified, devastated, permanently damaged, if they knew the truth about Dexter's murderous activities. The whole relationship is something of a facade that, but Dexter is the only one that knows it's a sham, a phony, a farce. We watch (and perhaps care for) a family, we become aware of their emotional lives, and yet we know who Dexter really is, and know the family doesn't know that, and know that they would be crushed beyond words if they did know the truth.
It goes further. "All in the Family," the season three episode when Dexter proposes to Rita, features the theme of role playing. From beginning to the end, Dexter's narration explores the ways he and others act out an expected role. This episode resonates with season one, when Dexter recounts Harry's lessons for "passing" as normal. He's supposed to fake it. He doesn't know real emotions, he can't actually connect with other human beings, so he's supposed to fake it. He's got to play a role. And in the final scene, when Dexter proposes and talks about how sometimes you end up playing "the role of a lifetime," I can't help but wondering if he's expressing a larger ambivalence about domestic life (an ambivalence not limited to psychopaths). Some people may feel like Dexter: that domestic life requires roles, that family expectations demand certain performed behavior, and sometimes that behavior is not authentic. It feels phony, fake. The domestic role is performed.
The show works at all sorts of levels.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Fall TV! Fall TV!
There are two shows that I am utterly thrilled with this fall. Thrilled.
Community. If you had told me that Joel McHale, Chevy Chase, and John Oliver were starring in a sitcom about college, you would have to say nothing more: I'd be in. Nothing this fall has made me laugh out loud more than the pilot of Community.
Glee. The show is just pure fun. It's light, amusing, and people often break into song and dance!
Community. If you had told me that Joel McHale, Chevy Chase, and John Oliver were starring in a sitcom about college, you would have to say nothing more: I'd be in. Nothing this fall has made me laugh out loud more than the pilot of Community.
Glee. The show is just pure fun. It's light, amusing, and people often break into song and dance!
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