baggage's Diaryland Diary

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Tuesday just before midnight

I watched my first ever episode of Sex and The City tonight.

And I wondered: How many other people are sitting in hotel rooms, bedrooms, and living rooms right now living vicariously through the four pretty women who occupied my vision for a little less than an hour?

How many single folks watch this show and see themselves in the characters? How many married folks wish they had lives like one of the characters? How many folks simply wish that they had something better to do with their time than watch television?

How many indeed.

Not that it�s a bad show. It�s charming, funny and all together better than most of the other shows I�ve seen.

But, for me, the last 55 minutes or so were wasted.

I could have been working. I could have been playing music. I could have been reading. I could have been writing (which, by the way, I was finally convinced to do when Carrie opened up the same black G4 laptop on the show that I�m currently tapping on).

I wish I could enjoy television. But, there�s no way. The characters annoy me. The situations, the over-simplified attempts at wit. Just the notion that the emotions involving breast cancer and child-bearing could be encapsulated into an hour long show is insulting.

Life is complicated. Life is a symphony with melodies, counter-melodies, rhythms, accidentals, sharps and flats. TV takes that symphony and turns it into an oversimplified pop song with cliched lyrics and sub-standard musicianship.

And another thing:

What is this fascination with horrror movies? Half naked women screaming? Blood and severed arms? What the fuck is this? Every other commercial seems to feature a person wearing a hockey mask and some cute girl screaming�

If I were home, I�d be in her arms right now.

That�s why I�m annoyed.

Because Sex and The City is no substitute.

8:08 p.m. - 2004-02-07

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