| (no subject) |
[Mar. 26th, 2004|08:09 pm] |
My addiction to "The O.C." has just about bowled me over into mania. Today, upon handing in my thesis, I proceeded to talk about the most recent episode with our undergraduate coordinator--and how, in it, the quenchable Paris Hilton was actually a grad student reading Thomas Pynchon. The idea of ridiculousness has officially been taken to new levels.
While some might say that "The O.C." is one of those stupid teenage shows, it has been rightly pointed out (by another woman who works in the art history department) that the beauty, the wonder, the majesty of "The O.C." lies not in the glamor of its characters, but the weird undramatic quality of the drama. So, yeah, attempted suicide and rich-boy idiocy was introduced in obsessive Oliver; maybe we've recently become too well acquainted with Mrs. Cooper and her sexual preference for young, airheaded water polo boys; and perhaps Mischa Barton's Marisa was barking up the wrong tree when she claimed in the most recent episode that she wanted to be "the smart one."
But the thing that is so good about "The O.C." is how those central characters go through traumatic things, but not in the pregnancy scares of 90210 or the inflamed apartments of Melrose Place. They go through actual growing pains (yeah, Kirk Cameron and Alan Thicke, take that). There's also this weird, inherent goodness in the Cohens. I have repeatedly told friends that I wish Sandy were my father, that I could raid Kirsten's closet, that I could live in a poolhouse. They're so generous and good; and the inherent evil that seems to plague much of primetime soap-land doesn't need to exist to intrigue, enlighten. Well, actually, maybe it's the fact that we just wish we could be part of the Cohen family. Maybe it's that I just wish I could fuck Seth Cohen. (I think I've already mentioned how I merged Seth with my current, explosive crush in a recent sex dream.)
Anyway, needless to say, "The O.C." rules, particularly for having made fun of itself this past week. Thank goodness T.V. doesn't need to be heavy and serious all the time.
The terms of academic endearment that have happily dictated this semester were founded on James Wood's Post-War Fiction class. Could the man be any more quietly enthused about what he does? Could he show his exuberance with any more subtlety? What connects Wood to "The O.C." for me is the fact that they both have actually allowed me to indulge in my worst fear, the scariest thing that I could have possibly encountered in coming to Harvard: not being smart. Well, not necessarily "not being smart," but not being intellectual. I think it must have had something to do with not being able lure boys in the same way that my second grade best friend could (yes, our hormones seriously started raging about the time Debbie Gibson came out with "Electric Youth"), and the years of subsequent lack of self-confidence. I feel pretty much over that at this point, but I've always wanted to be 'smart.' I've wanted people to respect me because I understood what asymptotes were or give precise evidence of how all the world's a stage.
It's certainly not that I don't have to worry about proving my intelligence (I still worry about it a lot, especially in class), but I finally started realizing that book intelligence isn't the only kind of smart that's out there. It's kind of nice to think about how perceptive people can be about the world, and not just in drawing interdisciplinary connections, but in observing, engaging and living the actual act of living. What has drawn me to both "The O.C." and the books we've read in Wood's class and his approach is that they just get living, albeit in such obviously different ways. These two worlds both just describe interactions, intentions, motives, themes--characters-- really well.
Enough singing of praises: it's time for some more reading and t.v. Actually, maybe just some t.v. |
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| wool and whine |
[Feb. 16th, 2004|01:51 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
| [ | music |
| | he Delgados and "Name" (goo goo dolls; you know you love it) | ] |
Happy Birthday, Abigail!!!!
--
Taking a critical step back from my daily activities, I've come to realize that I could very well be an old, old haggardly woman who surpasses Mr. Rogers in the sweater-changing department. I'm sort of obsessed with staying warm (I have this really weird thing called Raynauds, which just means that the blood vessels in my feet and hands are particularly sensitive to temperature change), so during this weekend of utter, utter laziness and hermit-ing, I've ended up bundling up with about three layers (blanket included), intermittently changing sweaters to mix it up. If this isn't a sign that I need to move back to California, I don't know what is...
"Sex and the City" has been particularly less exciting and fun as of late. Why must we always root for the ever-unattainable Big? Why is he supposed to represent the everywoman's crowning, torturous relationship? The idea of reformation is certainly interesting (and for which I think I've hoped one too many times) and that idealistic part of me hopes that it does exist for those of us who want it. But... It's not that I don't believe that an intense kind of love exists, or that people change in the most unexpected ways; I just feel like the kind of love that we all hope for is something more comfortable than troubadors, both then and now, describe. I hope that it's simultaneously tender and hilarious; I hope that it consists of cheesy pop songs and really obscure French films. Shouldn't it be Dodger Stadium and the Met and everything in between all rolled into one? Maybe it's something that shifts around a lot; maybe it's mobile and you can take it wherever you want to, but the person you're sharing it with just makes the experience that much better.
Of course, there's no question that we all hope it consists of really hot, hot, passionate, tryst-like, voracious sex, but what I question now is the idea that the most exquisite kind of love is that which is all-consuming, that it becomes the paragon to which we compare the rest of our lives. But shouldn't we be content or engaged enough with our lives to not have to make those comparisons?
Something else I've thought a lot about recently, just because it's one of those great, unanswerable questions of young life: how do you make relationships work? And how are people supposed to maintain a healthy independence when they're part of a unit? I feel like people who have been together for quite some time can somehow achieve it and this is born of a kind of enigmatic reciprocity that defines the relationship. How can one respect a person that much?
Clearly, I should just become another Carrie Bradshaw. Or, at least a Cary Tennis... |
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| thank goodness for dill |
[Feb. 15th, 2004|05:08 pm] |
As my roommates will attest, we simply had the most remarkable Valentine's Day last night. My God, a four-course meal consisting of salmon-radish and lots of herb crepes; salad with pears, candied walnuts and other stuff; really amazing chicken amandine; and a quite decadent chocolate mousse. I dont' think I've ever had a better Valentine's Day. Why is it that living on this earth is just a lot more excellent when you're living with really good people?
Other than Valentine's Day, I've been doing more work on my thesis this wekeend. As I mentioned last time, Professor Jarrard just helped me figure everything out -- and, suddenly, the pages are starting to spew. Thank goodness for that! It's really exciting when you finally feel that incredible hum; you know, that perfect, smooth-sailing feeling that you get when you are totally on top of your research and embodying the very essence of scholarly inquiry, curiosity. Awesome.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my life is wonderful. Oh, and the cherry and caramel on top? "Sex and the City" tonight at 9 -- and tomorrow's a holiday! |
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| Today? |
[Feb. 14th, 2004|09:12 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | pensive | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Air's Talkie Walkie | ] |
Reflective pause: Though every other year, Valentine's Day has been some sort of big deal, signifying some larger mass of people being much more attached to their lovers than I was to mine (if I had one at all), this year seems to have passed me in total oblivion. It's weird how we'll find ourselves in different stages of our lives, only to realize that the way we understand our changes is through stupid events like Valentine's Day. I don't really get it, but perhaps that's the way it goes. See, I used to be totally romantic, utterly available, and undeniably impulsive when it came to the idea of love. It's definitely not as though I've had tons of relationship experience that has altered this, but, for some reason, this year, being content with my life -- romance or not -- has paled everything that could be constructed into some kind of ideal. I feel like I sort of do like living in the present. It's just rather surprising and, really, in the best possible way!
Yesterday was one of the better days of late. I had a great phone conversation with this wonderful associate prof, Alice Jarrard, who perpetuated a belief, a real encouragement, that I could get this done and do it well -- within the heavy tradition of art history. Thank Goodness! Then, I had lunch with one fabulous Lily. And then off to thesis work. I didn't write too many pages, but I think I'm finally getting to where I need to be with it. The evening brought my favorite simple pasta and then "About a Boy" (cable has saved my life numerous times) before the night started. The highlight of the evening, though, was my very first Lampoon Party. I boogied down with my bad self, great friends, and THE RAPTURE! I mean, they weren't there, but their presence was total sonic sex. That band is so fucking hot and all I could do is what they commanded: "SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE". |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 9th, 2004|11:26 pm] |
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i haven't written anything digitally exhibitionist in ages! i'm not really sure where to begin... but i do know one thing for sure: thefacebook.com is my best friend. my god, this thing has helped me procrastinate to no end -- and i'm sure thankful for it. |
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| hooray! |
[Feb. 9th, 2004|11:14 pm] |
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Ahhhh... welcome to the digital age, missielo! |
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