Quick doodle of Rust Cohle from the HBO series True Detective, which I finished watching today. I’m giving it 4.5 out of 5 stars.
My frequent references to the HBO series Girls eventually led me to watch the entire first season in one sitting. I guess I couldn’t continue referencing the show with only a vague knowledge of what it’s about. It’s quite un-hip to do that. It’s almost the same as wearing a t-shirt of a band you don’t listen to, which, in the spirit of honesty, I confess to have done on occasion.
Another reason why I finally decided to watch it is I’m seeking affirmation for my feelings. I’m particularly talking about my feelings as an unemployed recent graduate who was thrust, albeit unwillingly, into the waters of young adulthood.
How convenient is it that Lena Dunham supplied us with Girls, a television series about the highs and lows of being a twenty-something in New York City.
Now, it’s necessary to point out the very obvious fact that I do not live in NYC. Hence, there’s a big chance that I may not experience situations that may arise from living in a place like NYC, such as, but not limited to: working as an unpaid intern at a publishing company, ‘smoking a glass cigarette’ while lining up to use the bathroom at a warehouse party, and keeping a complicated relationship with a scantily clad recovering alcoholic.
But then, who knows.
Despite these differences, I admit that I could identify with the characters in Girls. There’s Hannah’s ambition to become the voice of a generation (or at least a voice) and the physical insecurities that she treats with self-deprecation. There’s Shoshana’s naivety and Jessa’s radicalism. Best of all, there’s Marnie, who’s unapologetic bitchiness and overall uptightness are eerily familiar.
Truth is, like Dunham’s Hannah, I’m also ‘really scared all the time.’ I am left with no choice but to become a real functional actual grownup. Even if the idea seems cozy, relegating myself to teenhood is not an option.
So help me god and bless me with a 9-5, ASAP.
One week later, I’m still stressing over the non-conclusion of My So-Called Life. I want more Jordan Catalano bobo moments.
As the migraine was drilling into my head, I was watching a woman on the flat screen, cooking pasta. It may seem like a strange way of easing the throbbing pain on my temple, but cooking shows have always proven to be the best cure to my little problems. You just face the TV, get comfortable on your seat, and watch whoever’s cooking do what they ought to do, which is to make your mouth pool.
The colors are as vivid as paint fresh out of the can. You can never see a tomato so red, a lemon so yellow or an orange so, well…orange. It’s only on TV that you can witness food items dancing, jumping, tumbling down or flowing with utter serenity and calm (in the case of liquids.)
The food on TV is better than food in real life. Don’t you sometimes have the urge to turn the volume on full-blast whenever Nigella Lawson bakes in her kitchen? Or when that Emeril guy describes how good his spare ribs are by using the most appetizing adjectives in the dictionary? Hearing the sizzle of oil and the bubbling of broths is the closest you can get to tasting all that yummy food on TV. Life is unfair.